


Norwegian Wood

by 221Btls



Series: All My Loving [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional awakening, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following an attempt on John's life, Sherlock comes to realize that John is far more than a colleague to him.  This is the story of how they fell in love.  </p><p>"Sherlock came back with the bedding and finding him fumbling to get the buttons through the holes, firmly pushed the doctor’s hands out of the way and began doing it for him.  The long pause that followed caused John to open his eyes in mild curiosity to see what Sherlock was doing.  </p><p>Nothing.  Nothing except looking at him. </p><p>Sherlock stooped to wrap his arms awkwardly around John’s sagging form and then pressed his chest to him.  It felt…good."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Norwegian Wood is a song off the Beatles Rubber Soul album.

Sherlock sat at the window table in the small cafe four doors down.  The small red flower in the vase smiled at him.

John often commented that Sherlock “doesn’t follow me everywhere”, for the most part believing this to be true save for the times he saw it with his own eyes. Like the time Sherlock joined him and Sarah at the circus, and the time Sherlock coincidentally had a case in Edinburgh when John was there on conference, except for the time …. well. 

But he would be wrong. 

Earlier in the evening John had gone for a pint at the Ram’s Head.  He said he wasn’t meeting anyone there, but he had shaved for the second time that day, put on his best jeans and jumper, and splashed a dab of his favorite cologne on his neck.  So.  Maybe he doesn’t have a date, but he is most definitely hoping to find one. 

As Sherlock waited, making good use of the battery on his phone, he glanced frequently down the street for signs of movement. About an hour ago John had slipped and slid down the sidewalk with the female to presumably what was her home, laughing and cuddling against her as they arm-in-arm fumbled with the lock.  Hmmm, he must have indulged in whiskey chasers tonight.  It wasn’t often John followed a woman home from the pub, he preferred dates, but it had been a while since he’d had the company of a woman and according to John, sometimes a man just had to do what a man had to do, didn’t he? 

Glancing up once again, Sherlock caught sight of the woman shutting the townhouse door and hurrying down the street; at the end of the long strap hanging over her shoulder the purse bounced at her side, all signs of inebriation absent.  Climbing into the dark, late model Focus at the curb, she gunned the engine and after spinning her tyres momentarily, sped down the street.  Odd.  Very odd.  Where was John?  He quickly drew out his wallet and threw a couple of notes on the table, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste to exit.  As he rushed out the door he could see the first billows of smoke escaping the window at the townhouse. 

Sherlock flew.

 

* * *

"John! Wake up! We have to get you out NOW!" Sherlock grabbed his shoulder, almost violently shaking his best friend in his attempt to rouse him. The man who  jumps up and down in glee at the prospect of a serial murderer and finds children being poisoned with mercury "neat", was nearly coming unhinged in his desperation to get John out of the burning building.   
  
 _He doesn't follow me everywhere_  
  
That was John's first thought as he drifted unwillingly back to consciousness. An absurd thought he knew, given how many times it had been proven otherwise. As it was proved now with that pale, worried face hovering over him, speckled with black flecks from the smoke particles swirling in the air.   
  
The townhouse was swiftly filling with the black smoke that was threatening to obscure their path to fresh air, safety. The air was thick with the acrid smell making both men gasp, causing them to drag even more of the dangerous mix into their lungs. They could already feel the heat of the flames ready to grab them, ready to take hold and claim them as its own.   
  
Sherlock reached down and pulled John to a sitting position as the eyes of his friend tried to blink open in the inky air. "Come on, John, help me" he urged, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the panic in his voice.  
  
Groggily, John assisted Sherlock in his efforts to get him up. As quickly as they could, they reached the door and half stumbled down the stairs where they were soon in the night air. The snow fell lightly around them, the street lamp highlighting the sparkling flakes as though they were diamond dust. Catching their breathe at the sidewalk, they could hear a deep rumble and then the horrendous crash as the second floor of the townhouse fell through to the first...they had gotten out none too soon.   


* * *

  
  
The A &E was particularly busy; winter nights have a way of bringing people together in their misery. Sprained joints, influenza, colicky babies were the order of the night. Not a priority patient, John, with Sherlock at his side, was pushed down the triage queue and made to wait with the other patients.  
  
"Sherlock, sit down and wait with me," John scolded as the detective strode one more time to the desk to demand they attend to his ashen friend. As a doctor, John knew that they needed to see the more critical cases first, but Sherlock was never one to take “no” easily.  
  
"This man is suffering from smoke inhalation, he needs oxygen!  And it’s very likely he had a knock on the head as well; he could have a concussion!" He gave the nurse his most imperious glare, aiming to intimidate her into moving John up the list.  
  
"Please, sir" the nurse ground out one more time with practiced authority. "We'll get to him as soon as we can." 

Nurse Shelly had worked in the A&E for seven years now, six-and-a-half too many she thought.  She was well-versed in handling the anxious husband, the bullying friend; everyone’s loved one was the most important in the room and required care ahead of the others.  The tall man in front of her was just the latest in the entirely too-long line of concerned helpmates she has had to deal with over the years and she was not going to be bullied by him any more than she would be by the Queen of England herself.

Sherlock loomed over her, pale blue eyes searing into her. Taking in the nurse’s return glare, the squared shoulders, he briskly turned on his heel and headed back to John.  
  
"Idiots. Do they even have any training? You could have carbon monoxide poisoning, John!”  Trailing his fingers along John’s scalp until he found the lump that made John yelp, he added, scowling “and I’ve little doubt you were hit on the head and knocked out first.”

  
"Sherlock, they are doing the best they can. Now just sit down and they'll be with me as soon as they can" John said, the exhaustion creeping up on him making it difficult put up with Sherlock's irritability. He appreciated the concern his friend had for him, but _really_. He wasn't in the mood.  Absentmindedly he patted Sherlock's knee, trying to placate him...as though one _could_ placate Sherlock Holmes.  He leaned back and closed his eyes, breath slightly raspy.

“John!” Sherlock barked.  John’s eyes flew open.   “Stay awake.  You can’t go to sleep with a possible head trauma”, he continued, softening his tone.  
  
He would try to sit still as John asked, but he couldn’t help but fidget, his hands flexing deep in the pockets of his coat as he tried to hide the evidence of his agitation.  Sherlock took in John’s fatigued face~ the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, the grey tone of his skin, the breaths that were more shallow than is healthy.  He watched the other people in the waiting room, watched how the women held their crying babies rocking them, cooing into their ears, and placing long, soft kisses on the tops of their heads.  He saw the young woman, clothes mismatched and un-tucked as though she’d dressed in a hurry, perhaps in the dark, as she sat reading a magazine, head laid down on the shoulder of the young man beside her who had obviously found a slick patch of pavement and had come out the worse for the encounter.  He saw the old man clasp the hand of his wife as she cried softly into the tattered tissue, her apron still tied around her waist.

Looking back at John his brain told him that he should reach out and touch him, place his hand on his arm or pat his knee reassuringly.  His brain told him he should comfort his friend who was hurting, that is what people do, but he couldn’t wrest his hands from their hiding place.  Sherlock Holmes does not comfort people, not even his best friend.  Deep inside himself he felt ashamed, though he wouldn’t have been able to name it.

Needing something to do with his hands, Sherlock pulled his phone out, nimble fingers sailing over the screen as he texted Lestrade, explaining what he knew of what had happened, giving him the number plate of the Focus.  He told him they would talk to him tomorrow after John had gotten some rest.  Pocketing his phone, he stretched his long legs out and impatiently waited for John’s name to be called.

 

* * *

Arriving home at Baker Street three hours and forty-two minutes later, John made it up the stairs into the flat with Sherlock’s coaxing, flopping wearily into his chair.

“John. You can’t fall asleep there, you won’t be able to move when you wake up.”

“Leave me alone, Sherlock, I’m tired” he groaned.  I barely made it up those stairs, I can’t make it up to my bedroom.  Just throw me a blanket and I’ll be fine.”

 “No, John.”  Sherlock’s voice held quiet command.  “At the very least you can sleep on the sofa.  I’ll get you pillows and a blanket.  Now go lie down.”

Too weary to argue, John did as instructed, stopping on the way to unbutton his jacket; he didn’t know how he thought he could do something so strenuous, he could hardly keep his eyes open.  His eyes fluttered shut as he continued the arduous task, swaying with the effort of remaining erect.  

Sherlock came back with the bedding and finding him fumbling to get the buttons through the holes, firmly pushed the doctor’s hands out of the way and began doing it for him.  The long pause that followed caused John to open his eyes in mild curiosity to see what Sherlock was doing. 

Nothing.  Nothing except looking at him.

Sherlock stooped to wrap his arms awkwardly around John’s sagging form and then pressed his chest to him.  It felt…good. 


	2. Response

Sherlock was dismayed to find that, in that moment, his powerful brain failed him.  For as long as he could remember, he had been able to out-think, out-process even the strongest intellects he had come across.  His mental acuity had always been the one thing he could depend on. 

But not in that moment.  In the moment that he held John, when John unexpectedly wrapped his arms around him and rested his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock felt as though his receptors were scrambled.  He couldn’t process...anything.

After waiting all those hours at the A & E, watching the patients and their loved ones, the staff members and their patients, he had come to the very logical conclusion that he should extend to John a gesture of comfort; he had deduced that was what people in difficult situations needed from the people that were with them. 

When he had finished unbuttoning John’s jacket he had stood there for a moment steeling himself to commit an act that for so long had been foreign to him. And then John opened his eyes.  Sherlock nearly seized up, nearly changed his mind.  It was one thing to give John a hug when no one was looking, entirely another if he was being watched.  But instead of causing him to retreat, the warmth in his friend’s eyes told him he was not only welcome, but safe to do this.  Not that that mattered, not really, after all he was doing this for _John_ , not for himself. 

As Sherlock held John, feeling the softness of his hair as it brushed against his chin, he folded the smaller man more confidently into his arms.  He could feel his own breathing quicken, his chest tighten. Perplexing.  Why?  He had hugged Mrs. Hudson many times over the years and she had hugged him back, but he didn’t recall ever having this visceral reaction.  He wasn’t accustomed to feeling fear, and certainly not fear that felt…good, but that was the only response he could correlate this feeling to. 

“I need to lie down” John mumbled against him.

“Right”.  Sherlock reluctantly disentangled himself from the embrace.  Even if fear was the cause of what he was feeling, he was intrigued enough by the sensation that he didn’t want to let go. 

Removing John’s jacket, he draped it over the arm of the sofa.  After sitting John down before he collapsed, he tugged up the hem of his jumper, leaving the T-shirt intact.  “Up”, he said, watching the sleepy face as he coerced John into raising his arms to allow Sherlock to free it from his body; catching the neck on John’s chin, Sherlock gave it a quick tug.  The loafers were next, each offering a muted thud as they landed on the carpet below.  John slumped down, almost instantly falling asleep.  Covering John with the blanket, Sherlock crossed over to his chair.

Closing his eyes and steepling his fingers under his chin, with no small effort Sherlock steered his thoughts to the act that had threatened his friend. His mind whirled.  Who was the woman?  Was she the one who hit John and started the fire? Had she been at the Ram’s Head with the express purpose of harming John? Why did she want to kill him? 

The question that most disturbed Sherlock was ~ Would the woman be back to finish what she had started?  If he didn’t know who she was or what her motive was, how was he to prevent further attacks? How was he to keep John safe? As much as he had wanted to immediately pursue the leads that would fade with time, it had been more important to see that John received proper medical attention.  Catching the attempted murderer would just have to wait.  The waiting made him chafe; his fingers tapped nervously on the arm of the chair, instinctively matching the rhythm of his bouncing knee.  

Opening his eyes, they settled on the figure reclining on the sofa.  John.  He had kicked the blanket half off, his leg draped over the side, the arm resting on the top of his head mussing his hair.  Sherlock was pleased to note a soft snore coming from him.  Good, that means it’s a natural sleep and not the result of the head trauma.  As Sherlock watched his friend, the face that looked so relaxed in sleep, he was unaware that his fingers stopped their fidgeting, his leg stopped its bouncing.  He was unaware that his own body was mirroring a response to the peaceful image in front of him.  Had he been aware of it he wouldn’t have known quite what to make of it. 

* * *

 

John woke up to the fragrance of frying sausage and brewing coffee wafting through the flat, causing him to conclude that Mrs. Hudson had stopped by and taken pity on Sherlock since the cook of the house wasn’t up yet to perform the breakfast duties.  A pleasured groan escaped him.  He could wake up to this _every_ morning and be quite content. 

Then he recalled the night before.   Fuck.  The reality hit him that he had nearly died last night.  If it hadn’t been for Sherlock and his mysterious case that coincidentally found him in the neighborhood, there might have been no one to know he was there, no one to wake him up and get him out. 

Wait.  Even if Sherlock had already been in the area how had Sherlock known where he was?  How had he known he was in the burning building? 

 _He doesn’t follow me everywhere._   Or does he?  What other explanation could there be? 

Retrieving his watch from the floor beside him, John squinted and saw that it was 12:05.  He could tell from the sunlight streaming through the windows that it meant noon.  It made sense, he hadn’t gotten to sleep until about 4 this morning.  

Seeing John stir, Sherlock came out from the kitchen carrying a mug of coffee with him. 

John smiled gratefully as he took the warm mug from him and cradled it in his hands.  “Tell Mrs. Hudson I’d like my eggs over easy, would you.”  

“Mrs. Hudson?  Why would I tell Mrs. Hudson?”  Sherlock frowned, baffled. 

“She’s making breakfast, isn’t she?  I smell sausage.” 

“I don’t know where Mrs. Hudson is, but I can tell you where she most assuredly is not.  She’s not in the kitchen.” 

John was puzzled.  “Oh. Then who’s making breakfast?” 

“Why, I am John.  You really can’t think I don’t know how to cook, can you?” Sherlock looked affronted. 

John sat up, set his coffee down, and after putting his jumper on over his T-shirt took a close look at the man standing in front of him.  He _looked_ the same.  Same chiseled face, same untamed hair, same ridiculously well-cut suit that always looked out of place in their disheveled flat. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my flat mate?” he accused him, half seriously.  

“What do you mean who _am_ I?”  The detective asked, scrutinizing John as though concerned the mild concussion he had suffered the night before was worse than the doctors had thought.

 “The Sherlock Holmes _I_ know doesn’t cook, doesn’t bring me coffee, and he doesn’t… _hug_ me” he said, immediately wishing he could take his last words back.  Being hugged by a man was something John would normally think nothing of, but Sherlock, well… except for Mrs. Hudson, John had never known him to show another human being affection.  The hug had been unexpected, but in truth he couldn’t say it had been unpleasant and he certainly didn’t want Sherlock to feel self-conscious by the display; it would be good for him to have more human contact once in a while. 

Sherlock held John’s gaze for several moments and then quickly looked away, suddenly finding it imperative to check on the food on the stove.  “I’d best turn the sausage.  The last thing we need is to have to escape another fire, John”, as he headed toward the kitchen.  

John got up and padded after him.  “What a lucky break for me that you happened to be in the area.  If you hadn’t who knows what would have happened, I might not be here to witness the miracle of you cooking!”  John teased in an attempt to lighten the mood.  He knew he had hurt Sherlock’s feelings, but bollocks, did he always have to be so sensitive? 

“I have many talents, John.  Just because you haven’t seen them all doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” 

* * *

 

John planned on taking just a brief shower while Sherlock finished cooking breakfast, but as much as he scrubbed he didn’t feel as though he was getting the smoky stench off his skin and out of his hair.  Maybe it was the shock of knowing he had come that close to death that he couldn’t wash off.   Thinking about this, he shook his head in disagreement with himself; that didn’t make sense.  He had had his life threatened more times than he could count when he was at war, and that doesn’t include the time he nearly _did_ die from infection when he’d been shot in the shoulder. Unconsciously he started rubbing the flannel in circles over the commemorative scar.

When he’d been shot he had been scared to die, that much was true, but that had been a serious injury that literally nearly killed him. Why did this brush with death bother him so much? When it came down to it, he hadn’t even really been hurt~ a mild concussion from which he felt no after effects save for a faint headache and some smoke in his lungs that was about gone. Christ, the whiskey chasers were probably the worst damage inflicted on him last night.

Closing his eyes and lifting his face into the spray, he let it pelt his skin as he tried to pinpoint the reason he felt so disconcerted.  _What_ was so different about last night? 

Unbidden, the image of Sherlock standing over him came to mind; the moment just before he put his arms around him.  The memory was vaguely uncomfortable, if only for the reason that it was such a departure for his friend, yet at the same time he could feel a warmth pervade his body.  Sherlock was the most intense person he had ever known, and yet somehow, when he’d opened his eyes to see those silver eyes burning with more intensity than he had ever seen in them, he couldn’t help but think there was something going on behind them that held great significance for his friend.  

There was a quick rap at the door and Sherlock stuck his head in.  “Alright?  You’ve been quite a while and I, well, I got… I was just wondering.  One can never be too careful with a head injury.” Sherlock hated when he stumbled over his words. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. It’s taking longer than I thought to get the smoke off me.  I’ll be out in a few.” 

After Sherlock left, John shut the water off, reaching outside the shower to grab the towel off the warming rack.   Stepping out, he started to buff himself dry, abruptly stopping mid-way down his leg.  

When he had been injured in Afghanistan it had meant the end of his career as a soldier; his future as a surgeon had been cut short by the intermittent tremor he still experiences.  It had been beyond devastating, there was no doubt about that.  But last night… last night could have been the end of the most intriguing future he could have ever envisioned, the thrill of a life filled with risk and adventure.  Alongside the most amazing person he had ever known.

With sudden clarity he knew without a doubt what the difference was.  The difference was Sherlock.


	3. Admission

"Idiot," declared the deep voice from behind the newspaper across the table.  
  
With a piece of toast poised at his mouth, John reflexively took a look around behind him to see if there was someone else in the room Sherlock was talking to.  Not that it was an unusual occurrence for his flatmate to call him an idiot, but it didn't usually come totally out of nowhere.  
  
Seeing no one, "Wha.."  
  
"Yes, John, I called you an "idiot"." Sherlock folded his paper and put it down beside his untouched plate of food. "I know men have their "needs", but how many times did you think you could go home with a strange woman without something like this happening.  You of all people should know the crime statistics in London....”  
  
“Just hold on now, Sherlock.  How do you know I left the pub with a woman, and one I didn’t know at that?”  John’s look of wonder transformed into annoyance.  
  
Sherlock's eyes darted around, and settling them on John with a glare, he replied "You know my methods, John. I deduced it. "  
  
John, lifting his chin, challenged Sherlock.  "Right then.  What were the clues?"  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth but no words came out.  His mouth snapped shut in determined defiance. 

  
"You didn't deduce it Sherlock, did you.”  John asserted, firmly.  “You were there, weren't you; you were there because you followed me there."  They weren't questions.   
  
As John waited expectantly for a response, he watched the wheels of that magnificent brain turn. He knew the detective well enough to know that behind those hooded eyes at least six, no seven, plausible explanations were being formed.  Plausible to most perhaps, but he would have to come up with a pretty clever one to fool his flatmate.  Besides, he knew Sherlock’s tells.

John waited, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, breakfast momentarily forgotten.  He was rather enjoying putting Sherlock on the spot; it wasn’t very often that he was able to stump The Great Sherlock Holmes. 

Looking across the table, seeing the satisfaction on his face, Sherlock knew that John was right in thinking he was trying to come up with an explanation, but not for the reason the doctor might guess.  He knew at heart John was a private man and he also knew he wouldn’t take kindly to knowing that privacy had been breached.  That wasn’t what gave Sherlock pause. 

During the night he had come to a conclusion that had disquieted him and he didn’t know if it was something he was going to share with John.  As he ran through his options, he recalled his discovery…

Sherlock had not been aware at first that while watching John sleep his own body started to relax in response, but after some time he noted that unlike usual, his hands weren’t busy.  No bow to caress, no book to hold, no laptop to tap at.  And yet his hands were still.   He was quiet enough he could feel the rhythm of his heart, his slow steady breathe.   Fascinating. 

He had felt as though he had an intriguing new mystery on his hands.  Deliberating whether or not to pursue it, Sherlock was hesitant.  He knew that he was, to the consternation and annoyance of many, the most curious person they knew, but it was matter principal that he did not extend that curiosity to within.  What would it matter why or how he did certain things, how he felt?  All that mattered was the work. 

But this, this was fascinating and unsettling and baffling all at the same time.  Sherlock realized that his intense need to solve this puzzle was too strong to ignore. 

He collected the few clues he had: his elevated heart rate when he found John at the fire, his rapid breathing and tightened chest when he had hugged him, relaxing in tandem with him as he slept. The sensations had felt distantly familiar, but he couldn’t pinpoint the cause.

Rising from his chair, he had searched for the Harbinger Medical Reference, 15th edition.  Flipping rapidly through the pages he assessed and discarded many possibilities -- myocardial infarction, tachycardia, asthma, angina... The list went on, but Sherlock knew his broad range of symptoms didn’t match these ailments; anyway, he was in exceedingly good health.  Certain he wouldn’t find what he was looking for, he tossed the book on the mantel. 

Hearing rustling, he had looked over to see John repositioning himself, tangling himself further into the blanket, his arms now hugging his pillow.   Watching him for few moments, Sherlock felt reassured that his friend was still asleep, good.  He knew he needed as much rest as possible.

Resuming his mission, he had next pulled down his well-worn dictionary and looked up “fear”: “noun - a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined.”  Ridiculous.  As creative as he knew he was, he knew he could imagine no scenario in which he would be in danger at the hands of John Watson.  He ruled out fear. 

Perching back down on the edge of his chair, Sherlock leaned his elbows on his knees and roughly rubbed his scalp in an attempt to invigorate his synapses.  Frustrated, he knew he had to resort to a method that was not his favorite, to say the least; he needed to go to his mind palace. 

He had built his mind palace after, at the age of eight, visiting Buckingham Palace with his parents; its opulence and enormity had been enthralling.  Night after night he had dreamed of the palace, dreamed of going into a room only to find even more rooms branching off the one he had entered.  He had decided it would be a wonderful place to get lost in or to hide things.  Devising his mind palace, adding additions through the years when the palaces’ 775 rooms became insufficient, he stored information there that he didn’t want to entirely delete.  Information he might need to access again one day, but didn’t want to clutter his mind with.  He accessed it rarely and only when absolutely necessary.  He had found that too often when he visited it he stumbled onto disturbing memories; memories that, while potentially useful enough not to delete, were likely to hinder his everyday processes. 

He sat up straight, closed his eyes, steepled his fingers to his chin and began taking deep, controlled breaths.  He released himself from all sense of reality around him and traveled down the miles of hallways, opening doors, slamming them shut when they provided no useful information.  He entered room after room without finding anything useful. 

Not until he opened the room containing the 3rd month of his 21st year.

Oh….OH. 

He gasped as the memory flooded his mind and surged through his body.  His eyes flew open.  His neurons were remembering how to feel.   Feel something besides impatience and disdain.  This is what he had felt when he held John.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable,_ must be the truth.  

He was in love with John. 

Inconvenient.

Bringing himself back to the moment, he sat with the uncomfortable knowledge that he had somehow along the way fallen in love with his flatmate.  About to address John’s question, he finally managed to speak, not entirely sure what he was going to say.  “John, I...” 

Sherlock’s phone pinged.  Glancing down, a wave of relief washed over him; he wouldn’t have to try to explain.  Not now, anyway.

“Lestrade is here.  I texted him while you were in the shower to let him know you were up and ready to talk about the woman.”  Averting his eyes, he got up from the table and straightening his suit, headed towards the door. 

Thwarted for now, John wasn’t going to be put off for long.  “We aren’t done with this, Sherlock” he told his evasive friend, “I’m going to find out why my flatmate thinks it’s perfectly alright to trail me.”

\-----------------------

Sherlock paced as Lestrade shared what information he had been able to acquire, even in the absence of the primary witness.

“We’ve actually been able to accumulate quite a bit of information, though unfortunately, not very much of it is helpful”, the Inspector told the men in his weathered voice.  “I talked to the gents down at the Ram’s Head and they said they saw the woman you left with.”  Out of his file he pulled a photo of a woman in her early thirties, red hair swept to the side, meticulous make up, and showed it to John.  “This her?”

Taking the photo from Lestrade, John didn’t need to look for long, he knew after the trouble she had caused him he would never forget that face.  He gave a sharp nod, “Yeah”.  He looked up at Sherlock, who had paused his stride to stand beside him, and offered up the photo.  Saying nothing, Sherlock quickly scanned the face and dismissed the photo with a wave of his hand. 

Lestrade continued.  “They said she’d been at the pub for the last several nights, keeping to herself at the end of the bar, nursing a soda water most of the time.  That is, until you came in.  Either she took a macabre fancy to you or else she was waiting for you, mate.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance.  So.  He _had_ been targeted.  Not necessarily reassuring.

“Name’s Lucinda Albright.  At least that’s what we think it is; she gave her name to the barkeep the first night when she asked him to call her a cab.  She isn’t the owner of the townhouse.  We haven’t been able to contact the owner just yet; we talked to the neighbors and they said she was visiting her sister in Cardiff.  Donovan is tracking her down so we can get a statement from her, besides, of course, giving her the news that she’s homeless at the moment.”  Lestrade shook his head in empathy with the homeowner.  In his business, more often than not the news he had to give was unpleasant; it could get wearing.  “We showed Albright’s picture around and the only folks who said they’d seen her before said it’d been this week when they’d been down getting a pint at the Head.  We ran the name, it’s not in the criminal system, but there is a Lucinda Albright licenced with the DVLA.”   

“We found the car.  Someone in Brixton reported a Focus with the number plate you gave me,” looking up at Sherlock.  “It was sitting on the street in front of their place.  They wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but the driver door was open and appeared to have been like that at least a few hours, what with the snow accumulated in it.  We took it down to the Yard and forensics is going over it.  I’ve also got someone checking out the address on record with the Department of Transport.”

Lestrade’s phone rang; reaching into his trench coat he pulled it out, clicking the answer button and putting it to his ear.  “Yeah?” he said into the receiver.  

While he spoke to the person on the other end, Sherlock and John exchanged looks.  They both knew that they needed to resolve this.   Quickly.  This one was personal and neither man would be able to rest easily until this Albright woman was located and locked up.  Sherlock pulled his own phone out and taking a picture of the photo Lestrade had brought, texted a brief message and hit “send”.  John had some suspicions of who he sent it to; the name Holmes, though not the only name, was at the top of the list.  John was only surprised they hadn’t heard from him yet.

Greg finished his conversation and pocketing his phone, rose.  “That was Anderson.  He found something interesting at the house.”  Running his fingers through his short salt and pepper hair, he gave a weary sigh. “I need to get over there.  Meet me in say, 25 minutes?  I have to make a quick stop first. I still need to get a statement from you,” he nodded to John.  “And you, Sherlock,” directing his attention to the other man, “I know you’ll want to take a look at the scene.”  Not waiting for an answer, he left.  Though he had phrased meeting them at the house as a question, they both knew it was an order.  Not that they would have wanted to do otherwise. 

____________

With Lestrade gone, John turned to Sherlock, telling him sternly “I meant what I said, Sherlock, you’re going to tell me why you were there at the house.  We have a few minutes before we meet Greg there.”

“Why John?  Do you think I was in on it with her?”  Sherlock asked bitingly, regretting the harshness of his tone.  He knew John didn’t deserve that, but part of him was hoping he could avoid the inevitable.

“Don’t be a stupid git.  Now on with it.”  

Knowing he had little choice, Sherlock took to the chair across from John that Lestrade had occupied.  Smoothing down his trousers and elegantly crossing his legs he laced his fingers together in his lap.  Looking straight at John without a hint of emotion anywhere on his face, he began.

“You’re right, John, I followed you.”  Seeing the beginning of a smirk on his friend’s face, Sherlock tilted his head and admonished, “Don’t be so pleased with yourself, it was obvious.  Even Mrs. Hudson could have figured that much out.”   

Clearing his throat, he continued.

“When you killed the cabbie, it wasn’t so much that I was grateful, but that I was…” he searched for just the right word.  “… astounded.”  He paused in surprise at his own choice of words.  It wasn’t often that he found anything astounding, except for the stupidity of ordinary people. 

“Here was this man that I’d met little more than a day before and not only did you intuit that I was in danger, but you killed him to save me from that danger.  I don't recall anyone ever before being so selfless on my behalf. It made me feel beholden to you. Not so much in the sense that I felt obligated, but that I wanted to do something in-kind. I thought the thing to do would be to be available to protect _you_ in case the necessity arose. I wanted to make sure you were safe; I felt you deserved it."   
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"At least that was what I initially thought," he interrupted. "Then I came to realize that it wasn't protectiveness or gratitude that compelled me to be with you wherever you are."   
  
Stopping, Sherlock studied his friend's face. The anger had vanished. In place of it was a humility and softness offered to him that Sherlock didn't think he had seen before.   But he wasn't done.   
  
Drawing a figurative breath he came the heart of the matter. 

"I comprehended that it is almost physically impossible for me to be apart from you.  As odd as it sounds, when you're not nearby I feel as though there is a part of me missing and it is terribly unsettling.  So, when you head out alone the only way I can continue to feel whole is to go with you, even if you don't know I'm there. You are essential to me, John."   
  
For a moment John stopped breathing. He searched Sherlock's face and knew that despite the dispassionate tone, the emotionless façade, what Sherlock said was the most emotional outpouring he had ever heard from this proud man. He looked at the almond-shaped eyes that were markedly free of arrogance and contempt, the mouth that was relaxed and unguarded, and he knew that Sherlock had spoken words that were absolutely true.   
  
And he found that he could not fault him for his admission, for hadn't he, John, been thinking the very same thing earlier? When he had realized that Sherlock was more important to him than being a soldier or a surgeon? If that wasn't the definition of essential, then he didn't know what was.

“Right then” John whispered to himself.  


	4. Acceptance

Due to a lifetime of practice, Sherlock found it easy to keep his face passive; it was the upheaval inside him he found difficult to control.  He could honestly tell himself he’d never felt more vulnerable, but if he hadn’t felt something close to it before he would never have had to lock this feeling deep in the bowels of his mind palace. 

He inspected the face that knew so well, the face he now knew he held felt great affection for, waiting for the repulsion to surface from it.  How could _anyone_ hear him tell them they were so important to him and not rebuff him?  He cringed at the certainty that his life with John was about to come to an end.  John will leave.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything, but the respect he has for this noble man told him that for once he should tell the truth.  He owed John that much, even if it cost him the presence of this man that is so important to him.

Filled with foreboding of the loss he knew was to soon come,  he rose, acting as though his world wasn’t about to go dark. 

“We’d best go meet Lestrade, John,” Sherlock said, flatly.

Making his way to the door to retrieve his coat, he came to an abrupt stop when he heard John finally speak. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

Did John just… _thank_ him? 

He couldn’t have heard that right.  He turned to look at John and was confused by the sincerity he read on his face.  Where was the ridicule? Where was the rejection?

“Yes, you heard me right.  If that had come from anyone else I might find it, well, a little creepy, but coming from you, it is one of the best compliments I have ever had.”  John stood up to stand in front of Sherlock.  “I know _you_ , and I know what it cost you to say that, so thank you for trusting me enough to share that with me.”

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you, John.  I was giving you facts.”

“I know.   But I also know you try to pretend you’re somehow above all the rest of us mere mortals and don’t have feelings.  Maybe you don’t realize this, but you’re an incredibly passionate person, just not about the same things as the rest of us.”  John shrugged.   

Resting his hands on his hips, Sherlock stood looking at John, not knowing quite how to respond.  Tentatively he asked, “So you aren’t moving out, then?”

John barked a laugh.  “What?!  Why would you think that?”

Giving John a look that shouted “Obvious!” he replied, “I did just tell you that I stalk you.  Most people wouldn’t put that at the top of the list of behaviours they desire from a flatmate.”

“Sherlock,” John admonished, as though speaking to a child, “with that genius brain of yours I’m sure you have to have noticed by now that I’m not “most people”.  I kind of suspected that you followed me at least some of the time and to tell you the truth, I don’t mind the thought of having you around.”  John swallowed the tinge of cowardice he felt rise in his throat for not telling Sherlock that he shared the feeling of connectedness.  As emotionally self-unaware as Sherlock was, he knew he was far ahead of him in his ability to voice whatever he thought or felt.  Sometimes to the better and, admittedly, often not so much.

\----------------------------------------

Heading outside into the chilled air, hands shoved into their pockets, they walked side-by-side in silence, taking care on the icy sidewalks not to slip.  It was about a half mile to the townhouse, but they managed to leave their previous conversation at the flat.  It seemed that for the moment, pretty much all that could be said on that topic had been said.

“You go to the Ram’s Head often, have you seen Albright there before?”  Sherlock eventually inquired.

John shook his head.  “No.  I don’t remember seeing her there before.  Or anywhere else for that matter.”  There hadn’t been any sense of familiarity when she had come over to him and asked if he was waiting for someone.  He’d been surprised, it was usually he that had to initiate a conversation.  And he had intended to, she appeared to be alone and was quite pretty.  He’d held out a chair for her to join him and they almost immediately seemed to click, laughing and chatting like old friends in a matter of minutes.  When she’d leaned in, putting her hand on his arm (her perfume was quite nice) and told him she lived just a few blocks away, would he like to continue their conversation there?, there had been no hesitation.  Paying the tab on the way out, he wrapped his arm through hers and they headed down the street. 

Lost in thought, it dawned on him that Sherlock had said something.

“I _asked_ , did she seem to feel familiar with the house, was there anything that caused you to wonder if it might not be where she actually lived?”  Sherlock repeated impatiently. 

“Oh.  Aahh, no.  She seemed to know where everything was, she walked around the place as though it was hers.  I had no reason to think she didn’t live there. 

Turning the corner, they caught their first glimpse of the house, it looked all the more horrifying in the daylight.  John hadn’t really gotten a good look at it last night and to see it now was sobering.   Seeing the charred building , the front section that had burned clear through, the broken windows, the debris on the sidewalk partially covered in snow, he shuddered. 

He didn’t realize he’d stopped in his tracks and was just standing there staring at the damage.  He sucked in a deep breath.  Before now he hadn’t absorbed how close he had come; had Sherlock not been there he surely would have died.  He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. 

“It’s alright, John.”  Sherlock said softly, his rich voice soothing. 

John raised his jaw and straightened his shoulders.  “Let’s go see what Lestrade’s found.”

They walked the last 50 feet to where Lestrade and Anderson stood, the latter covered in black streaks and dark dust, clearly having been in the rubble inside.

“Oh, look, Batman and Robin are here.”  Anderson sneered, looking down his sooty nose at them. 

John threw him a scathing look, though he begrudgingly admitted to himself there _was_ a certain resemblance. All Sherlock needed was a black mask to complete the look. 

Sherlock wasn’t quite so charitable.  “And who are you, The Joker?  Where’s Wonder Woman?”  John lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the pop culture references. 

“Boys, boys, play nice,” Lestrade interjected, not entirely successful in stifling his chuckle. 

Looking inside the building, John and Sherlock surveyed the destruction.  Most of the interior was gutted, making it all the more amazing that there was relative little damage to the homes on each side of it.  No doubt the fact that the shared walls were brick had a great deal to do with that. 

On the walkway in front, sitting on a pile of snow, sat a small crate of items that had apparently been taken from the house.  Some easily identifiable, others taking more scrutiny.

“You said there was something of interest, Inspector?” Sherlock reminded him.

“Yeah, this is kind of puzzling.”  Reaching down into the crate he picked up a metal necklace.  Dog tags.  He dangled them on his fingers for Sherlock and John to examine.  “Found ‘em in the living room.  Funny thing is, the old lady that lives here has never been married and doesn’t have any children.  This is a sentimental item for someone to keep, usually from a close family member.”

Sherlock took them from Lestrade, taking a closer look.  Rolling the melted tags in his gloved fingers, he concluded there wasn’t much information to be gained from them, at least not in their current condition.  “Military issue, obviously.  Do you see here,” pointing at one of the melted tags, “the letters “j” and “i”.  You will be taking these down to the lab to clean them up and see if you can make anything else out of them?” 

Lestrade nodded.  “They’re pretty beaten up, but maybe we can get enough to make an ID on them.” 

\---------------------------

While Lestrade got a statement from John, Sherlock focused on the rubble, going into the house and catlike, perching precariously on pile after pile of burned flooring and household goods.  John’s eyes followed him as he wound himself through the house, stooping here and there to get a closer look through his magnifying glass at something that caught his eye, heedful not to trail his coat in the soot.  “Careful, Sherlock, it’s pretty unstable in there” he called out.  Whether Sherlock chose to ignore him or just didn’t hear him, he wasn’t quite sure.  Sighing in resignation, John turned his attention back to the Inspector’s questions.

 “So tell me about what you and Albright did once you got to the house.”

“Just the usual.  She turned some music on, we fixed ourselves a couple of drinks, and sat on the sofa and talked.  Snogged a bit,” John added, chagrined to think he’d kissed a woman who was going to try to murder him.

“There wasn’t anything that you found peculiar, say, something she might have said that made it seem like she already knew something about you?” 

“No.”  Thoughtfully, he added “Though she seemed unusually interested that I was an Army doctor.  It’s nothing new for people to latch on to the fact that I’m a doctor, but there it was something a little more intense with her.  I can’t put my finger on what it was, exactly.”

Lestrade looking thoughtful, added more notes to his pad.  “You were hit on the head with something.  Anything you remember about that?”

Gingerly rubbing the sore spot on his head, John told him that she had gotten up with him to show him where the loo was and the next thing he knew, Sherlock yelling at him to wake up.

“I do not yell.”  Sherlock had quietly reappeared beside them as John talked to the Inspector.  Hands clasped behind his back, the detective rocked on his heels, indignant at the characterization. 

“Okay.  Maybe you didn’t yell, but you sounded pretty loud to me”, John conceded, exasperated.

“Oh, excuse _me_ for wanting to get you out of a burning building.” 

“Well, if it happens again, feel free to leave me there if I’m so much trouble.” John glared at Sherlock, just daring him to make another snarky comment.

Sherlock blanched beneath his glare, saying nothing.

Captivated, Greg watched the exchange.  How in the world these two could not only work together, but live together, too, he’d never know.  If this is how they acted in public, he couldn’t imagine the rows they must have in private.  He was secretly delighted to see John give as good as he got.  He’d known Sherlock for some time and he’d never known anyone to stand up to Sherlock the way John did.  And see Sherlock take it.

“So tell me, Sherlock, how did you happen to be there?  That was a pretty lucky coincidence for John.”  Lestrade asked.

Sherlock, who had known this question would be coming, looked over at John in consternation.

John jumped in to rescue him.  “I texted him after I got there.  I knew he was just down the street working on a case involving some kind of swindle, and since I wasn’t going to stay very late, what with an early shift today, I wanted to know if he wanted to share a cab back to the flat.  I’d had a little too much to drink and didn’t want to risk falling on my arse.”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth nearest John quirked up in gratitude.

Looking at John and Sherlock, the Inspector wasn’t entirely convinced that John was telling the whole story, but he decided to let it go for the time being.  If he needed to dig in deeper later down the road, he’d deal with it then.

\-------------------------

Arriving back at 221b, John hung up his coat and headed to the kitchen to turn the electric kettle on. He felt chilled to the bone and needed a hot cup of tea to warm him back up. He wondered at his flat mate’s silence; Sherlock hadn't spoken a word on the walk home. A couple of times John had tried asking him if he'd found anything interesting in the debris, but Sherlock remained locked in his own world and didn't respond.   
  
As John moved into the sitting room with his cuppa, seeing that Sherlock was staring out the frosty window, he asked if Sherlock wanted him to fix him a cup, too. A biscuit perhaps? He hadn't seen Sherlock eat since the day before.   
  
Nothing.  
  
John walked over to where Sherlock was standing. "What's going on?  What’s got you so quiet?" 

He wasn’t prepared for the undisguised fury aimed at him when Sherlock turned to face him.  
  
"Don't you EVER dare joke again that I should leave you to die" Sherlock snarled, eyes blazing. "You have _no_ idea how I felt finding you, wondering if you were already dead. I...I..." His voice broke, at a loss how to continue.  
  
John’s eyes roamed over Sherlock’s face, the anger gone; the distress he saw in its place tore at him. Not knowing what else to do, he set his mug down and reached his arms around Sherlock, pulling him towards him. "It's alright Sherlock, I'm alright. I'm sorry if I frightened you,” he murmured.  
  
With little hesitation Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, his slim fingers gripping his jumper. Leaning his head down to meet John's, he exhaled heavily and whispered "I was so afraid I had lost you. I don't think I could bear it."   
  
John closed his eyes and held Sherlock's thin frame tightly to him. They remained like that for several moments, each reassured by the warmth and steady heartbeat of the other.

  
John pulled back, resting his hands on Sherlock's arms, finding and locking Sherlock's eyes with his. "You can't get rid of me that easily.  I'm not going anywhere, you stupid git." 


	5. Kiss

Sherlock couldn't help it. 

He would allow himself this moment to drop his guard, there will be time later to put the wall back up.  But not now… not now.  He had buried the sensation of love so deep, so long ago that, that to be near someone again, to be near _John,_ that was he to believe in anything outside Earth, he might call this heaven.       

Soaking in the sight of John's warm blue eyes, the soft mouth, the flush on his cheeks from their embrace, he felt he had no choice; he leaned in and pressed his lips to John's. Feeling his friend startle, he paused briefly, not daring to look at the expression of surprise that was sure to be there, but when John didn't move away, Sherlock moved his lips against John’s responsive one’s, exploring, tasting. So sweet; he sighed.  He hadn’t once thought about what it be like to kiss John Watson, but had he, he never would have thought it would feel so RIGHT. It was as though, without knowing it, all his life was a prelude to this moment, as though their lips were meant to come together in affirmation of life itself.  

Taking John's jawline into his palm, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb, he inhaled John’s scent; he almost felt dizzy with the headiness off it. Settling his other hand on John’s waist, Sherlock trailed his lips over the stubble on his chin, down the smooth skin of his throat, nuzzling into the jumper to find the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. Aware John was leaning more heavily into him, hearing the smaller man’s labored breathing, he felt encouraged to press his lips more firmly into the erogenous area, licking, nipping.  

John gave a small moan, tightening his fingers into Sherlock’s waist.  Surely, there would be fingerprints left there, were anyone to think to look. 

Finishing with a soft kiss at John’s collarbone, Sherlock drew himself upright, taking a moment to right his breath.  Finding the courage to open his eyes, he noted the pupil’s blown wide open, the visible pulse at the ex-soldier’s neck, indicating that perhaps John had been as affected as he.  He wasn’t quite sure if he should apologize.  

John blew out a huff of breath, feeling slightly dazed.  What the hell was THAT?

As he took a moment for his head to clear, he couldn’t help but think about that first night at Angelo’s when Sherlock had said he was “flattered…but”.

"I thought you said you weren't interested in this kind of thing?" he asked Sherlock.  
  
"I wasn’t," Sherlock stated plainly.   
  
"But now you are?"  
  
“It was just a kiss, John,” he prevaricated.   
  
John's lips pursed into an "Oh", holding them there as his mind processed what had just happened. Well, _that's_ sorted.

 

\-------------------------------

 

Sherlock knew what people thought of him, they thought he was a virgin or maybe asexual; they thought he was afraid of sex or just didn’t want it at all.  None of it was the truth, or at least it didn’t used to be. 

There was a period of time years ago when he used to engage in romantic relationships.  In his late teens and into the early part of his 21st year he had dated a number of young men.   He had the normal hormonal urges of a vigorous young man; he loved sex just as much as the next person.

His problem hadn’t been that he fell in love too easily, it was that he wasn’t very good job at choosing who to love.  Sherlock had been vibrant and passionate, but naïve enough to be unaware that not everyone fell in love for…the sake of love.  Unwisely he hadn’t restrained himself in his affections, boundaries had never been for Sherlock, leaving himself wide open for misuse.  He would give everything he had~ time, money, body, and even on the rare occasion his soul, never finding a lack of young men who would gladly take those parts of him, giving him nothing in return except empty promises and disregard.  His heart was broken time and time again.

After a notably painful break up, one that left him especially hollow-hearted and desolate, Sherlock realized that for all his brilliance he wasn’t able to apply his reasoning to romance; he knew it wasn’t for him to continue seeking love.  For all his tenacity in everything he did, this one time he would give up.  He felt humiliated in his inability to accomplish what almost every common person in the world could seem to do, find someone to reciprocate his love.  He consoled himself that he had his cases and his music.  They would have to be, and would be, more than enough.

So one day soon after, on a particularly gloomy afternoon, he drew the shades of his room, laid himself on his bed, and mentally carved out the part of his heart that held affection, locking it in a small room down at the end of a long, lonely hallway in his mind palace.  He’d never thought to ask himself why he didn’t delete it entirely; had he, he would have had to work hard to come up with a reasonable answer to the question of why it might be useful in the future. 

Until now.  Until John.  

Sherlock was conflicted about having released the contents of that room, even though it had been inadvertent.  Exquisite torture.  That is what being in love was.  The boundless joy of being near someone who made him feel more alive than the most complex unsolved murder.  The fear of it being unrequited, of having his heart broken so irretrievably that it would be difficult to wonder how he could live through another day. 

He knew with certainty that John was not like his previous objects of affection.  John was kind and giving, loyal and trustworthy; he would never take from Sherlock without reciprocating in full.  He knew without question that he could, and would, love John for a lifetime if he allowed himself. 

The question was, would John love him back.  That was something Sherlock had no answer for, though he was inclined to think he would never be so fortunate.  It had never happened before that someone had loved him as much as he loved them and there was no reason to think it would happen now.  He would have to give serious consideration to deleting these feelings for good. 

But he can’t, not just yet.  Just for this brief time he will indulge in feeling utterly and completely alive, even if it somehow comes to mean the end of him.

\------------------------------

It had been a short day.  Even having gotten up so late, John still felt exhausted; his head was spinning from all that had happened in the last 24 hours.

“I’m going to head on up to bed, Sherlock.  It’s been a, um, long day.” 

The detective looked at him, eyes narrowing as he examined him for after effects of the blow to his head.  “You aren’t feeling light-headed are you?  From your head injury, I mean,” he clarified, not wanting John to think his question was about…The Kiss.  Concern creeped into his voice as he added, “You sure you don’t need something to eat before you go to bed?  You only ate once today; I can heat up a can of beans for you.  Or we can order takeaway.”  

“Thanks, but no, I’m not hungry.”  He rubbed his hand over his face, clearly looking tired.  “I know we didn’t get much done, but an awful lot has happened and I need some rest.  I’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning, not to worry.  What will you be doing?  You really should get some rest, too, you know.  Whether or not you like to think so, your body needs some down time once in a while.”   As a friend and a doctor, he couldn’t help but point out to Sherlock that sleep is a natural and necessary biological function.

Sherlock was headed into the kitchen, but not for food.  “I brought some samples from the crime scene that I need to examine.  Good night, John.” His mind already on the contents of his pockets that he’d rooted out of the fire remnants, he dismissed John.

“Night.”

As John climbed the stairs to his room, he knew that he had only been partially truthful.  He was tired yes, but he also had to get out of the same room as Sherlock.  His mind was in turmoil.  

He stripped down to his T-shirt and pants, sitting down on the edge of his bed.  Touching his fingers to his lips, he closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the glorious mouth that just moments ago had been caressing them.  Holy fucking hell.  He felt as though an imprint had just been made that would spend a lifetime there. 

Lying down, he tried to sleep, but images of Sherlock leaning in to kiss him, the generous mouth, the warm, gentle hand on his face, wouldn’t allow his mind to rest long enough to pass into slumber.  Instead, uninvited visions of those gorgeous lips on his neck kept interrupting him.  In this version they didn’t stop at his neck, they moved across his shoulder, down his chest, stopping to flick a moist tongue at a nipple, his jumper and T-shirt having magically disappeared in his fantasy.  John became uncomfortably aware that his cock was getting hard.  Christ, this is the last thing he needs, to lust after his flatmate.  Yes, Sherlock had kissed him and it certainly felt like more than the physiological joining of two bodies, but despite the uncommon emotion Sherlock had showed since the fire, John couldn’t picture him engaging in a sexual act.  Or, God forbid, a romantic relationship.    Wrapping his hand around his erection, he gripped it tightly, fighting the urge to fulfill his need. Sherlock’s companionship was more important to him than anything else in the world and he wasn’t going to ruin it by letting his heart go soft and falling in lust, or in love, with him.  

Regretfully, he removed his hand from himself and rolled over onto his side.  It was painful, but there was nothing to be done about it, he had to put those thoughts away.  Lying there wide awake for far too long, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

___________________

The room was almost pitch dark.  He woke up as he turned over onto his back.  With sluggish eyes he thought he saw the soft moonlight outlining a figure sitting in the chair at the end of his bed, hunching over onto its knees, dark eyes trained on him.  Sherlock?  Couldn’t be, he never comes into his room; he must be dreaming things.  He closed his eyes and fell back asleep. 

________________________

The next morning it was as though nothing unusual had taken place the evening before, which was a huge relief.  The two men had developed a comfortable routine that suited them, and it was entrenched enough to smooth over any rough spots.  To be sure, “rough spots” usually meant heated debates or exploding experiments, not snogging, but they would be fine.

“John, come look at this,” Sherlock instructed from the kitchen.

“Did you even go to bed last night?”  John asked, moving over to Sherlock.  He never got used to Sherlock’s odd hours and ability to go days without sleep, seemingly none the worse for wear. 

“Why would I?”  Sherlock looked puzzled.  “I wasn’t tired and I had work to do.  We need to find Albright, John.”  How was none of this obvious?  _Think_ John.

Sherlock leaned back from the microscope and turned it to allow John easy access to peer into the scope.  John wasn’t ever quite sure why he had him do this.  John never had a clue what he was looking at, but it didn’t hurt anything and it appeased Sherlock, so he always went along.  Adjusting his focus through the glass, “And what am I looking at?” he asked Sherlock. 

Sherlock had a ready answer, but he took the opportunity to inhale the sight and scent of John close up.  There were so many intriguing shades of blonde in his hair, and with the gray intermingled in it was….

“Sherlock?" 

Mentally shaking himself, the detective turned his attention back to the sample.  “Do you see the black metal flecks?”

Concentrating, John could make out the minute flecks of shiny metal amongst the duller dust that he presumed was ash from the fire.  “Yeah.  What is it?”

“It’s zirconium hydride.  It’s readily available for purchase on the internet; one of its common uses is to make homemade fireworks.  It seems our arsonist wasn’t confident that the generous amount of petrol she used would…take care of things.  She likely used this chemical to expedite her intentions.  I thought I heard some pops, but I didn’t know what they were.”  Sherlock took the microscope back and took another look.  Seeing for himself some of the physical evidence of how the woman had tried to kill John filled him with rage.  When they found her it would be her good fortune not to be left alone with him. 

Leaving Sherlock to his analysis, John opened the fridge, poking through the assorted body parts, both human and animal (would Sherlock _never_ learn to keep them off the edible food shelves?!).  There was no milk.  Unsurprising.

“I’m heading down to Tesco’s to get some milk.”  Thinking about what Sherlock said about following him everywhere, he thought it might be kind to invite him along so he didn’t have to lurk.  “Umm, do you want to go with?” he asked his friend who was still concentrating on his sample, not sure if he should refer to Sherlock’s revelation.

Looking up, Sherlock said “John, when I said I go with you everywhere… I think I can live with you going to the store without me.”  Sherlock was still discomfited by his admission and he wanted to show John that he did have _some_ restraint, though to tell the truth, he was in the habit of shadowing even grocery outings.  He added, “Do take your gun with you.  You never know; there _is_ still a mad woman out there somewhere.”

In agreement with Sherlock’s suggestion, John fetched his gun from the desk drawer, checking to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on.  Tucking it into the back of his jeans, he walked over to put his coat on.  He couldn’t explain the sense of disappointment he felt that Sherlock wouldn’t be joining him.  He inwardly shrugged it off and headed out the door.

 

\--------------------------------

 

It was one of those rare winter British days; the sky was clear, allowing the sun to reflect the splendor of the glistening snow that was everywhere.  Beautiful on a rainy day, London was breathtaking on a sunny winter day.

In his distinctive soldier stride, John headed towards Tesco, paying no attention to the car pulling to the kerb beside him until he saw it was a sleek, black, late-model luxury car with tinted windows.  Sighing with resignation, he knew this must be Mycroft’s response to Sherlock’s text yesterday.  He opened the door and climbed into the darkened interior.

The overhead light came on as the vehicle started down the road, illuminating the face of the person seated across from him; years of training kept him from recoiling.  The face belonged to the woman he had met at the Ram’s Head. 

Lucinda Albright.   Bloody hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will likely be a couple of weeks before I can update, this does not make me happy.
> 
> Thank you to Moonshadow for the phrase "exquisite torture"- what a divine description of the experience of falling in love.


	6. Kidnapped

Sherlock waited exactly 48 seconds before it was too much for him.

The first 10 seconds after John closed the flat door, Sherlock tried to remember what he was looking at through the eyepiece.   The next 15 seconds he got up to look out the window to watch John head down the street.  The next 23 seconds after that he spent pacing the sitting room, berating himself for telling John he was not going along.  Stupid. _Stupid_.  Why did he let John go alone?    Isn’t it his job to help keep him safe?  Isn’t that what he’d told him?   As he had just told John, there is a deranged woman out there.

Sherlock couldn’t handle it.  He hurried to the door, and throwing his coat and scarf on, rushed down the stairs.  If he hurried, he could catch up with John.

\--------------------------------------------

Turning the corner down the end of the block, Sherlock could see John a little way down the street.  His heart clenched.  Pulling up to the kerb alongside John was a black sedan.

“JOHN!!” he yelled, but John was too far away and the noise from the traffic made his shout all the more irrelevant.  He didn’t even attempt to run after him, the car, with John in it, was already driving away in the other direction and the radiant heat from the sun was melting the ice cover on the sidewalk, making it too treacherous to run on.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, he quickly texted -

_Did you send a car for John?  SH_

He had to wait but a moment before he received a reply -

_No. MH_

_John’s been kidnapped. Late model Jaguar XF.  Black.  Couldn’t make out the number plate.   SH_

_Did you activate the GPS?  MH_

_Yes, they’re headed…_

Opening an app on his phone, he swiftly called up the location request.  The blue pinhead on the map showed the location and direction of the car.

… _west on Allsop Pl.  SH_

_I’ll get my men on it. MH_

He hesitated.  He and his brother have a relationship that no one would mistake for congenial, but he knew this was not the time to be antagonistic.  He would hold his sniping for another time.

_Thank you, Mycroft.  SH_

_Wait until we have him.  MH_

Sherlock texted Lestrade next-

_Baker St. NOW.  John’s been kidnapped.  SH_

It was an excruciatingly long time until he received a return text, though in actuality it was less than a minute.

_Be there in 5._

_3\. SH_

Sherlock shook his head in disgust at himself.  He should have known better, he never should have let John go alone.  He let his pride get in his way.  Unforgivable.

It was small consolation that he had done one thing right, he involved Mycroft.  Yesterday, when Lestrade showed them the photo of Albright, Sherlock took a picture with his phone and sent it to his brother.  She wasn’t in the regional data base, but perhaps his brother could find her in an international database.  Mycroft had been the one to suggest, as a precaution, activating a GPS application on John’s phone.  When John went to bed, Sherlock downloaded a tracking app to both their phones, providing Mycroft with a link. 

Who could have known they would need to use it so soon.  

\--------------------------------------------

The first thing John noticed before he saw the woman’s face was the sub-compact Beretta she held in her hands.  Aimed at him. 

Here was the battlefield, just inches away.  He had never felt more calm. 

John eased back in the leather seat and hung his clasped hands loosely on his parted thighs.  His intention was to look at ease, but not so much so that she might think he didn’t have sufficient respect for the position he was in.  It didn’t hurt that he could feel the reassuring form of his gun pressed against the small of his back.

It wasn’t necessary to have the deductive powers of a consulting detective to see that she was jumpy.  Despite the fact that she was holding the gun with both hands, it still shook perceptibly; the trembling would have been worse had she not been stabilizing her arms by resting them on her legs.  Her lips were firmly pressed together and there was a small sheen of sweat at her brow. 

What truly brought him pause, though, was the sharpness and focus in her gaze.  She clearly was on a mission, and the mission was to see John Watson dead.

“Hello, Lucinda.”  He offered, neutrally.

“Good morning, John.” 

“And what do you want with me, then?”  Had he been remotely amused, he might have made a crack about the obviousness of the answer to his question, but he couldn’t be more serious.  The real question, the one he knew they would get to at some point, was “Why me?”

Lucinda took a deep breath through her nose and answered “I want you dead”.

Right then.    

“Why?”  He held her gaze without challenge or subservience.  He was built to look into the face of adversity without appearing perturbed.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

They sat in silence for several minutes; he could see no benefit in pressing her.  With the windows so darkly tinted there was nothing to look at but her, and he certainly wasn’t going to sit and stare at her.  He closed his eyes and laid his head on the headrest as though it were the most natural thing in the world to relax in the company of someone who had to tried to murder him.   

John couldn’t help but mentally kick himself for climbing into the car without first looking at the occupant.  He would like to blame Mycroft and his cryptic ways for conditioning him to think that being picked up at random was only annoying, not potentially lethal, but he knew he had only himself to blame. 

And, Jesus, he knew it was his own fault that Sherlock hadn’t come with him.  He knew his flatmate well, knew it was Sherlock’s damn pride that prevented him from tagging along. If John hadn’t asked him to go to Tesco’s with him, Sherlock would have followed him, would have been able to keep him from making such a rookie move.

Sherlock. 

He couldn’t think about him right now, at least not the possibility of never seeing him again.  It would only distract him and he needed every faculty available to keep himself from harm.  But… it _could_ be helpful to wonder “what would Sherlock do?”  Sherlock had dodged criminals on the streets of London a good many times more than John had; how did he stay alive? He couldn’t help but give a rueful chuckle; the detective would probably render her semi-comatose reciting the chemical properties of 243 types of tobacco ash.

“What are _you_ laughing about?  Do you think this is funny?!”  Her voice was shrill, sounding just a few short steps from hysteria.

Opening his eyes, he saw the anger on her face. Clearing his throat, he said in as soothing voice a he could find, one that wouldn’t edge over into patronizing, “No, sorry.  Just thinking of a friend of mine.”  He hoped the tone of his voice and his expressionless face would placate her.  The last thing he needed was for her, in nervousness, to accidently pull the trigger. 

He has no intention of dying today.

\--------------------------------------

Flying down the street as fast as road conditions allowed, the police cruiser pulled alongside the sidewalk where Sherlock paced, his breath puffing small clouds into the frigid air.

Lestrade reached across the seat to the passenger door and pulled the handle, opening it for Sherlock.

“You think it was Albright?” he asked quickly.

As he got in Sherlock nodded, checking his phone again to update himself on the direction of the sedan.  His phone had never made it back into his pocket; he had compulsively kept texting Mycroft to get any updates on his progress in reaching John. 

Sherlock briefly filled the Inspector on what had been happening; as they drove he gave a running account of where they were headed.

Looking at his screen, he saw that the pinhead stopped moving.  He was puzzled because of where the pin was; it stopped moving on the motorway.  It didn’t make sense. There are no traffic lights in that area.  Was there an accident?  Or a traffic jam the kidnapper’s car had to slow for? 

When they got to the site where the pin stopped, the traffic was moving along, there were no stalled cars along the side of the road.

Sherlock’s heart filled with dread.  Either she had thought to search John, which meant she would also have found his gun, or John’s mobile received a call or text, bringing it to her attention.  Without the phone they couldn’t track its progress.

_She must have found John’s phone and disposed of it. SH_

__  
_We will find him, brother. MH_

_There is no other option. SH_

The idea of not finding him before it was too late was unthinkable. 

 

\-----------------------------  

“So why do you think it was the Albright woman?” Lestrade had for the most part been silent in their pursuit, speaking only to clarify the directions Sherlock gave him.   He had worked with the detective on many cases over the years and knew better than to interrupt him when he was trying to think.  This was different though, this was personal.  There was an air about the man that was almost frightening in its intensity.

“It had to have been.  She failed in her first attempt to kill him and that is just going to make her more determined to try again.  John hasn’t called or texted me, which he would have done if he wasn’t under duress.  I didn’t call him because I did’t want to call attention to the fact that he had his phone on him.  It has GPS on it and if she got rid of the phone, which it appears she did, we don’t have a way to find him.”

“We’ll get him, Sherlock.  Between us and Mycroft, we won’t let anything happen to John.”  John was his friend as well and he would do anything in his power to see he stayed safe.

“Can you promise that?”  Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer to his question.

Lestrade hesitated, but there was no other response he could truthfully give. “No.”

Sherlock had not been wrong.

\-------------------------------------

Sherlock studied the coordinates of the car when the GPS went dormant, analyzed the direction it had been heading.  Knowing the area well from when he had solved a case several years ago involving a decapitated artist, he knew with what little information they had at this point what would be their best option.

“We need to go to Cane Hill.”

\----------------------------------------

The Cane Hill Hospital was an abandoned insane asylum.  Opening in 1883 and thriving for more than a century, it at times housed as many as 2000 of Britain’s unfortunate souls.  When, two decades ago it closed, patients were moved out to more humanitarian environs.  The shuttering of the hospital was distinguished by the fact that almost all of the furnishings, much of them institutional goods such as dishware and laundry, as well as documents and clothing, were left behind, almost as though its staff and inhabitants had suddenly vanished into thin air.  Some say the buildings and grounds were haunted.  Others used it as their own personal ill-gotten playground, starting fires and vandalizing the property to their malicious hearts’ content. 

Lestrade steered the police car onto the motor path that wound around the huge compound.  At any other time the wintery weather might be considered a hindrance, but today it was a blessing, they could see the path of the car in the semi-frozen ground.  One set of tyre tracks going in.  None coming out.

About 200 yards in front of them they say the car they’d been chasing, a red-headed woman hurrying toward it.  She slammed the door after jumping in and the car sped off.  No John in sight.  
  
Not waiting for the police car to come to a full stop where the other vehicle had just been parked, Sherlock started to open his door.

"Sherlock!"   Lestrade barked at his back, knowing it was little use to try to make him wait for the Inspector.  Who knew what kind of trouble they might be heading into.   
  
There wasn't a pause in Sherlock's race to find John. He scrabbled through the break in the fence and made his way across the grounds of the abandoned building.   
  
Suddenly, he did come to a halt and pressed his fingers to his temples. THINK. Sherlock had been to Cane Hill once before and he needed to visualize the interior.   
  
Albright is an arsonist. She needs a space with plenty of flammable materials. His fingers fell from his head, his head snapped up in a flash of recognition, and he ran towards the old administrative wing where there were still boxes of ancient paperwork that would make ample fire tinder. 

His coat billowed behind him as he ran toward the superintendent’s office.   The room had changed little since he was last there; file cabinets were overturned, spilling the papers onto the desk and floor, chairs were overturned and scattered about.  Despite the abundance of combustibles, there was no smoke coming from the piles.  Sherlock didn’t notice any of those details, for there, lying motionless on the floor was the only thing of importance in the room.  John.

As Sherlock dropped down to the floor by him, John opened his eyes, and looking back at Sherlock, at his pale, worried face, he moaned “Christ, not again.”   John tried to lift himself but was barely able to raise himself off the ground before weakly falling back to the floor, Sherlock catching his head before it hit the hard concrete. 

As Lestrade ran into the room, Sherlock instructed him to retrieve the syringe he had noticed lying next to John.  Thankfully, the syringe appeared to be full, which meant Albright had barely been able to inject its contents into her victim, if at all.  Lestrade pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around the sharp tip, dropping it into a small evidence bag he always carried in the inside pocket of his coat.    
  
Getting John up with some effort, Sherlock and Lestrade each wrapped an arm around him and together guided him to the car. Opening the back door, they sat John down. Sherlock went around the other side of the car and sat in back with his friend, positioning him to half lie on the seat, his head pillowed by Sherlock's lap.   
  
"You alright back there, mate?  You ready to go?"  Lestrade looked in the rear view mirror, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. The Inspector looked away to allow Sherlock his privacy; the look of despair he saw there was something he had never seen before on this man’s face and one he never wants to see again.   
  
Sherlock nodded in agreement.  Even though he knew Lestrade couldn’t see his head move, his throat was too constricted to make a sound. The despair Lestrade had witnessed permeated him.  Though he had only been cognizant of his feelings for John for just over a day, he knew they had to have been simmering in his subconscious for some time, now hitting him full force.

To once again see this man he loves harmed in such a way was more than he thought he could bear.  Gently smoothing his fingers along John’s scalp as he lay there, watching the hairs feather through his fingers, Sherlock was frightened by his capacity to love one person.  This person.  John.

Lost in thought, he repeated the motion over and over until they arrived at Baker St.  


	7. Fear

When John woke up, looking over he saw Holmes sitting in the chair, with fingers steepled at his chin in the familiar pose.  But it wasn’t Sherlock.

“Mycroft?  Where’s Sherlock?”  Looking around, he didn’t see his flatmate.  In his bedroom, perhaps?

“Hello, John.  Are we feeling better?” Mycroft asked, the royal “we” unsurprising. “You’ve had a very rough couple of days, I understand.”  Oddly, he sounded almost empathetic.  Almost.

“Where’s. Sherlock?  Is he alright?”  John enunciated; his purpose to make Mycroft aware that he was not in the mood for chit chat.  The last thing he clearly remembered was walking into the building at Cane Hill.  He went cold at the thought that perhaps something had happened to Sherlock, not sure how that could have happened since he himself was the target, but something may have gone wrong.  If Mycroft was here and Sherlock wasn’t…

Looking at John with a solemnity that was mildly alarming, Mycroft said “Sherlock is well.  He’s not here, he needs some time to be…alone.”

“He’s not here?  What do you mean he’s not here?  Did he go off with Lestrade?”  Sherlock never went  _anywhere_  without him.  Except for the time he went with the cabbie, but since that incident he was more careful.  John did not like the sound of this.  He got up to take a look around the small flat to verify Mycroft’s statement.  He didn’t hear or see anything that indicated Mycroft was saying anything but the truth.

“If you must know,” Mycroft sighed, knowing that John would persist, “he’s gone to my house.  He wasn’t feeling well and felt my abode would provide the appropriate refuge.”

Now John was even more alarmed.  Sherlock didn’t like to be alone and he  _certainly_  didn’t go to Mycroft’s for any reason, to be alone or otherwise.  He felt preternaturally calm.  Not like the calm of the battlefield, but the stillness of absolute fear, being so filled with emotion that he almost couldn’t feel anything. 

“What’s going on, Mycroft?”  He asked so softly that Mycroft had to lean towards John to hear him.

“He needs to think, John.  He’s had a very unusual, epiphany, if you will.”

Now, that made absolutely no sense.  Sherlock had always been able to “think” anywhere and everywhere, and that certainly included their flat.  In fact, his ability to do so quite often verged on just this side of annoying.  There was never any warning when he shut the world out in his attempt to deduce; one moment you’d be talking to him and the next he didn’t even know you were in the same room as him.

“That doesn’t sound like Sherlock, Mycroft.  You’ll have to forgive me, but from what I’ve heard the last place he would go to find a sanctuary is your place.  So what is  _really_  going on here?  Tell me what’s going on with him.”

Mycroft sighed and acquiesced, he really didn’t understand these things and he certainly doesn’t want to get in the middle of them.  “I told him love is not an advantage, but it seems as though he has managed to find himself in love with you.”

John’s brow pinched. What?  “What do you mean, he’s “in love” with me?  Did he tell you that?” he asked suspiciously.  Mycroft must have misunderstood.

“No, he didn’t have to tell me.  I know my brother well, John, and I’ve been able to see for some time that there is something quite different in the way he responds to you.  But the fact is he’s not like other men; he’s not designed to withstand such strong emotions.  He doesn’t now, nor will he ever know, how to adequately accustom himself to such frivolity; he was born to use his brain not his heart.  Love is such a trivial matter.”  Mycroft was back on familiar territory, bringing the natural glint of superiority to his eyes.

John stopped listening to Mycroft somewhere in the middle of his little speech.  Not because he disregarded the words, but because he was stunned.  Sherlock?  In love?   

And with him?

John knew he was the one that told Sherlock he was far more passionate than he would give credit to himself, but John hadn’t meant it on the subject of love.  As well as he knew Sherlock he couldn’t imagine him feeling such a strong emotion as romantic love.  And even if, IF, he did, it wouldn’t be towards his average flatmate, who didn’t have a tenth of the intellectual capacity of the genius Sherlock possessed.  It didn’t make sense.

Maybe it didn’t make sense, but…it just might be true.  The intimate hug, the extraordinary kiss.  Hell, Sherlock brought him coffee~ if that didn’t scream “love” then he didn’t know what did.  The actions were so out of the ordinary for the detective, that unfathomable as it may seem, there may be no other explanation.

John shook his head in wonder.  Sherlock Holmes in love.  As clichéd as it sounded, wonders never did cease.  But in love with  _him_ ; how was he going to handle this?  What did he even think of it?  He needed to see Sherlock and talk to him.

“Take me to him, Mycroft.”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“I don’t give a …” John started angrily, the simmering rage directed at Mycroft, not his brother.  Checking himself, he continued in a more reasonable tone, “I don’t care what he thinks he wants.  You’re going to take me to him and he’s going to face me.  Let him look me in the face and tell me himself what he does or doesn’t want.”

* * *

 

Walking into the massive foyer, John did his best not reveal his sense of inadequacy.  John had never been to Mycroft’s mansion before; by any standard it was opulent and grandiose.  Despite this he couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness at the sense of solitude it exuded.  All this wealth and Mycroft had no one to share it with.  Surely there would be live-in help, but that was not the same as having a companion or spouse.   John nearly felt sorry for him.

 “Where’s Sherlock, then?” John asked, his eyes scanning the upper hallway for a sense of direction.

Swinging his umbrella toward the twin set of curving staircases, “Go up the stairs, he’s in the second bedroom in the west wing.” Mycroft looked as though he was going to add something, but changed his mind and nodded toward the landing above instead. 

Bounding up the stairs two at a time, John paused at the top, then with resolve headed to find Sherlock.

Rapping lightly on the partially open door, John entered the room that was darkened by the thick curtains that were drawn closed, not waiting for an invitation.  Sherlock was lying on his back, fully clothed in his trousers and dress shirt.  He still had his shoes on. 

Moving closer to the bed, John suppressed a gasp at the sight of the small knife Sherlock held in his right hand.  He could see the white of Sherlock’s eyes as he opened them to watch John approach.  Nothing else moved.

“Sherlock!  What…?” John edged slowly towards Sherlock, not wanting to startle him with any sudden movement. Slowly reaching his hand out, he offered it to Sherlock palm up, in an effort to appear non-threatening.

“Give me the knife, Sherlock.  I’m not going to let you hurt yourself, love.”  John couldn’t imagine what hopelessness Sherlock felt that was so great he would want to harm himself.  Whatever it was, John was going to see to it that his friend would come out of this without a mark on him.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.  “Hurt myself?” he replied indignantly.  “I’m not going to hurt myself, John.  Don’t be so dramatic!”

John let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.  Sherlock certainly  _sounded_  alright.  “What?!  _I’m_  dramatic?  I’m not the one holding a bloody, well, a knife.” 

“I’m not going to use it to cut myself,” Sherlock declared.  Truly, he didn’t understand why John is getting worked up over a little thing such as a knife, it didn’t even have a very long blade.

“Then what have you got it with you for?”  John wasn’t trusting Sherlock’s intentions; no matter what words came out of the detective’s mouth, John could see for himself the weapon in his hand was very real.

Sherlock sounded a little less sure of himself, “I…I’m going to delete something and the feel of the knife is assisting me in my preparation.”

“What are you going to delete?” John asked in the same soothing tone he would use with a wounded animal.   He was familiar with Sherlock’s method of freeing his mind of information that doesn’t have any value to him, but he never knew the process to take such an intense approach.

“I’d really rather not go into it.  It isn’t anything that concerns you, John.”

“Sherlock, this may come as a surprise to you, but pretty much  _everything_  you do impacts me in one way or another.  I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re together pretty much every day and night except when we sleep; when something affects you it affects me, too.  This looks like more than a simple matter of freeing space in your head for more casework, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on.  What are you deleting?”

There was plenty of room on the large bed to sit down without crowding Sherlock.    On the outside, John looked undisturbed, but inside he was trembling; something is seriously wrong and he needed to get to the heart of it if he was going to be of any help. 

“It isn’t anything that you can do anything about, so why don’t you go back to the flat.  I’ll be back soon, nothing to worry about.” Sherlock was annoyed that John just sat there, not getting up and doing as he asked.  He’d have to try again, be more direct.

“Leave, John.”  He said in his deepest, most commanding voice.  He raised an eyebrow, daring John to disobey him; most people would go off in a huff when he acted like this.

“No.” John just folded his arms and stayed put.  “I’m not leaving until I know what you’re on about.” 

Sitting there silently, while they held a contest of wills, John thought about the bombshell Mycroft had laid on him.  He wouldn’t normally believe such a peculiar notion, but while Mycroft was highly annoying, he generally was correct in his observations. 

He licked his lips in anticipation of what he was about to say, but there was really no other way to go about it than to jump right in.  “Uhm… does this have anything to do with what Mycroft told me, that…that you’re in love with me?”  There. He got it out. 

Sherlock’s eyes clamped shut, the pained expression clearly visible.  He sucked in his breath as his hand gripped more firmly on the knife handle.

With Sherlock’s eyes closed, John took the opportunity to remove the weapon.  He laid his hand on Sherlock’s wrist and rested it there for a moment to let him get used to the feeling, to see that John was no threat.  Sensing no resistance he gently removed the knife from Sherlock’s hand, dropping it off the side of the bed to land on the floor with a thump.  That’s taken care of. 

John sat quietly, taking in his flatmate’s face.  It wasn’t everyday he had the occasion to look straight at Sherlock without those piercing blue eyes directed at him.  Yes, he had been attracted to Sherlock when they met, but after he had been told in no uncertain terms that there was no possibility of a relationship, he had set the idea aside; there was no sense pining over someone that wasn’t interested. 

The recent revelation of Sherlock’s feelings gave John permission to soak in the beauty that was Sherlock.  The full lips that he now knew from experience were every bit as sensual as they promised, the distinctive cheekbones that begged to be stroked, the tousled curls that he could only imagine would be as silky between his fingers as they looked.  But most of all, what he saw was the soul behind the beauty.  Certainly, Sherlock could be an acerbic prick at times, but John understood that it was not about maliciousness or disregard, but that his friend had so much  _life_  in him that in its impatience to escape his body, it often wasn’t as subtle as society would dictate.  And that passion was what most attracted John to Sherlock; he was like an untamed lion, strong and fierce and prideful.  Sherlock was magnificent. 

He reached out a hand to touch Sherlock’s troubled face, which relaxed under the gentleness.  Gone were the furrowed brow and pursed lips.  The eyes came back open, searching him.  John didn’t remove his hand for a few moments, drinking in the icy pools of blue.  As blue as ice, yet somehow they didn’t feel cold.

“So.  What Mycroft said is true, then?”  John didn’t think it could be otherwise, judging by Sherlock’s reaction when he asked him about it the first time.

Sherlock nodded. 

“So is that what you want to delete?  You want to delete…me?”  John dreaded the answer.  Love or no love, he knew that there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to be by Sherlock’s side, sharing in the life that had become necessary to his existance.

“No, John, I would never delete you, I told you that you are essential to me.  I need to delete how I feel about you.” 

Sherlock told John about when he was younger, when he used to love without limit and the pain it caused him when the romances failed.  He told him about storing those feelings in his mind palace and about how he had released them purely by accident when he had unwisely been curious about his reactions toward John.   

John finally got why Sherlock had been holding the knife.  “You don’t want to commit suicide.  Which, by the way, that little thing I took from you would never get the job properly done, something I’ve no doubt you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.   _Suicide._   “Really, John, I thought you were more sensible.  If I were ever going to off myself, there are far more efficient ways, not to mention less messy.  I would never do it in such a way that would cause you trouble.  Now Mycroft, on the other hand…”

 John snorted.  “Well, that’s comforting.  How bout we just say you never do it.  That would take care of things.  So, about this deleting business.  Don’t I have a say in it?  After all, it  _is_  about me.”

Sherlock appeared to think about this, then shook his head.  “I can’t love you John and have you not feel the same way.  I went down that road too many times before and it didn’t work for me.  It’s better this way.  We can continue to be flatmates and work together; once I put it out of my head for good we will remain the way we have always been.”

John tried to hide his impatience with Sherlock’s stubbornness.  “For once, could you try not to be dense, eh?  What if I wanted to see where this would go if both of us were in it?  Would you hold off for a bit?  Do you think you could do that?  For me?  For…us?”

That was quite a number of questions all bunched together, but Sherlock’s lightening quick mind sorted through all the arguments both for and against, the fears and the hopes.  Hope.  But if John was asking him to forestall his actions, wasn’t that the defining argument for…hope?  Sherlock knew one word that would answer these questions of John’s.  One word he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t come to regret. 

“Yes.”

That one small word held a world of possibilities for them, a world that each was a little overwhelmed to contemplate.  At least for now.

John took off his shoes; maybe Sherlock was used to putting his shod feet on the expensive looking duvet, but John wasn’t.  He laid down facing Sherlock, who rolled onto his side to face John.    

Neither would be able to say who reached out first, but they pulled themselves into each other’s arms and entangled their bodies.  Without a word, without even a kiss, they melted into each other until nightfall, just lying there.

Just being.


	8. Promise

For no less than two hours, they lay there on the bed in Mycroft’s house, entwined like ivy on a pole, listening to their soft breathes, feeling the steady thrums of their hearts.  
  
Predictably, Sherlock was the first to break the embrace, though how he had stayed still for so long, John had no idea.   
  
Pulling back slightly, "John?"  
  
"Hmmm?" John answered, eyes still shut in reverie, reluctant to release himself from the languid warmth that was Sherlock.  
  
"I didn't ask how you are. When I left you at the flat with Mycroft, you were still, you weren’t yourself."  
  
"I'm alright. I think I was still a bit hazy earlier, but my focus was what was going on with you, so I think I just put it aside; it’s gone now."

John opened his eyes and looked at this man he thought he might well be falling in love with. It humbled him to know this beautiful, beautiful creature wanted _him._  With a brain feeling a little light from that knowledge, his fingers, by their own volition, reached out and traced the pillowy soft lips, trailed up the prominent ridges of his cheekbones, and finally, finally, ran them through those fucking gorgeous curls; they were every bit as silky as he had thought would be. He closed his eyes again and softly sighed. He didn't know what he had ever done in life to deserve such a gift as this man lying beside him, but it didn’t matter, he was grateful, whatever it was.   
  
Wrapped up in each other as they were, they didn’t hear Mycroft at the door until they heard him clear his throat.  “Gentlemen.”

“Don’t you ever knock?” Sherlock snapped in annoyance at the uninvited guest, not moving from where he lay except to raise his head to glare at Mycroft.

“Dear brother,” came the mocking reply, “the door is open so there is no _need_ to knock.  Detective Inspector Lestrade is downstairs waiting to speak with you and Dr. Watson.”  If he was at all surprised at the sight before him, his face didn’t show it.

“Tell him we’ll be down in a moment,” Sherlock said dismissively, holding out his hand.  “Give me my mobile.  I’ll ask you kindly to not answer it in the future. “

Instead of going into the room to hand Sherlock his phone, Mycroft turned to head back down the hallway.  “You may retrieve it yourself when you and… your friend come downstairs.”  With that, he strode away, his heels clicking on the marble floor.

When Mycroft had arrived at the doorway, John had quickly disentangled his hand from Sherlock’s hair and the rest of himself from the man lying beside him.  Though he knew Mycroft knew full well that John was upstairs with his brother, he still found it a bit disconcerting for them to be found in such an intimate pose.  He mentally rolled his eyes at himself; Christ, here he was almost 40 years old and he was worried about “the family”. 

Sherlock returned his attention to John.  “Don’t worry about Mycroft.  He thinks I should be locked away in some gilded cage and never be near another warm body.  He thinks I should be like him, living a solitary life.” 

Sitting up to put his shoes on, John reached down and gave Sherlock a brief, but meaningful, kiss to his lips.  “What a terrible waste that would be.  We’d best go down and see if Lestrade has come up with any leads.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft and Lestrade stopped chatting when they saw Sherlock and John descend the stairs.  Lestrade’s keen eye noted there was something different about them, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.   He was happy to see that they both looked better than the last time he’d seen them. “Better” being a relative term for Sherlock, who held a not-uncommon glower on his face, though the Inspector would have to say it was a far improved sight from when he had taken John and Sherlock back to 221b hours ago. 

 As Sherlock retrieved his coat and scarf, Lestrade inquired how John was.  “You looked like death warmed over the last time I saw you.” Wincing, he added, “Pardon the expression.  Looks like you’ve got your color back; you ready to get back to work?” 

Opening his mouth to answer, John was preempted by Sherlock.  “He’s just fine, Inspector.  Though I do suspect he could use some nourishment.”  He looked down at John for confirmation, concern evident in his eyes.

John raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “I’m famished.”

Deftly rapping his scarf around his neck, Sherlock told Lestrade about a little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place in the area; they could be brief each other on any developments while they ate.

Well-mannered Mycroft, ever the gracious host, offered to have his staff cook something up for them, privately hoping they would decline.

“You’ve been put out more than enough today,” Sherlock said, knowing that Mycroft would prefer to sit down to his scotch while perusing the evening paper to confirm he had far more knowledge of recent global events than the media.  Giving a small nod as he finished putting on his gloves, “Your assistance today has been greatly appreciated.”

Saying nothing, Mycroft tilted his head and quirked a half-smile.  It was rare, but this was a moment where sincerity was the only possible sentiment the brothers could exchange.  Rescuing John had been the highest priority today; to Sherlock for himself and John, and to Mycroft, for Sherlock.  This was as close to warm as their relationship ever got.

“John.”  Sherlock swept out the door.  John and Lestrade behind him, his long legs took him quickly to Lestrade’s car.

 

* * *

 

If anyone had asked him, Sherlock would have said that he was able to lie there so long nestled on the bed with John because it was restorative for John; even if the doctor didn’t sleep, the restfulness would benefit him.  Sherlock personally didn’t understand these things.  He wasn’t much for true rest, lounging around being a means to problem solving or the product of boredom, but from living with ex-soldier he knew his flatmate believed it to be true. 

If he was asked, that is what he would say.  But that would have been disingenuous of him.

Sherlock knew the real reason was because he had never felt such peacefulness before.  He was an adrenaline junky and thrived on the motion of his body, the constant motion of his mind.  Even when he played his violin, it was to remove himself from the world so he could _think_ ; it never stilled his mind or soul.

But laying there with John, wrapping himself around his warm, solid body, he felt not just calm and uncluttered, but grounded, an experience that was as fascinating as it was mystifying.   He knew that he felt an integral part of him was missing if John wasn’t with him, he now knew that to watch John in slumber soothed him, but when his heart started to beat in rhythm with John’s while they lay there, he experienced a previously unknown _wonder_ that the small man beside him had such a powerful influence over him.  It was almost as though they were two parts of one being.  Symbiotic.   As absurd as that sounded to him, Sherlock, with that great gift of the English language at his ready disposal, couldn’t find a more fitting way to put it. 

* * *

 

The Golden Foo Dog was a small restaurant just a half mile from Mycroft’s house.  Run by a Chinese family who had immigrated to Britain a half century ago, the third generation still had never managed to get a handle on the native language that tied their tongues.  Though they had adopted generic English names for use at work, “George”, “Alice”, and “Sue”, they still dressed in traditional Chinese costume, bright colors adorned with dragons and birds, kung fu shoes.  The dried ducks hanging in the windows proclaimed the restaurant “Authentic”.

The three men sat at a small square table in the back of the restaurant, feeling it a relatively safe place from any attempt on John's life. If Albright continued to follow her pattern, she wouldn’t try to touch him when he was in the company of others. The police cruiser in front was well-marked and advertised there was police inside. Unless she was so deranged she would risk her own life to take John's, they should be free from worry at the moment.  
  
Waiting for their food to arrive, John told Lestrade and Sherlock about the drive to Cane Hill, how she had held him at gunpoint the entire time.   About how when they got there, she had pushed her hand to his back, finding and taking his gun, pressing it against his side to coerce him into the building without resistance.  From the fact that she shielded the gun from the view of the driver he didn’t think the driver was aware of her intent. He told them about how she had taken a medium size piece of luggage out of the trunk and had John roll it into the building with them.   He never discovered what its purpose was.  
  
During John's recitation of events, Sherlock once again came to the conclusion he should reach out to give him a supportive touch; he could tell it was difficult for John to relive the events of the day.  Frustratingly, he found he couldn’t bring himself to do what he decided in a very logical way was the appropriate thing to do.  What is wrong with himself, he wondered.  Hadn’t he learned that people in distress need their…loved ones to give them physical reassurance?  It really shouldn’t be this difficult, after all he had touched John many times in the last few days and it had by no means been an arduous task.  Except for that first time when he hugged John and even then he had settled into that with ease after a few moments.

Talking to Lestrade, John could see out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was becoming agitated, could hear the drumming of the fingers on the table, hear the faint tapping of the toe on the floor.  Without missing a beat in the conversation he reached over and covered Sherlock’s hand with his, feeling the nervousness slowly coming to a stop, Sherlock’s palm turning over so his long, cool fingers could lightly grasp his.   He noticed Lestrade’s eyes flit down at the movement, lifting them quickly back up, but whatever the Inspector concluded from what he saw was the least of John’s concerns.  As it had been since the day he met Sherlock, Sherlock was his primary concern.  Whether Sherlock was in danger, or hurt, or unsettled, his overriding need was to come between him and life’s unpleasantries.

John settled his hand more firmly into the one holding his, grasping it in return.  He could feel his heart beat just a little bit faster.

* * *

 

It was difficult for them, but John and Sherlock, in silent accord, turned their attention from the unexpected, but by no means unwelcome, heat of their clutching hands to what Lestrade was asking.  The subject was literally a matter of life and death. 

"Did she give a hint at any time why she wants to kill you?" 

John thought back to the few words they exchanged and shook his head in puzzlement.  “No.  When I asked, she said she would tell me later.  Obviously that was just to put me off for some reason, since I wasn’t likely to hear what she said after she knocked me out.”

The conversation died while the server brought the plates of food out; no one was in the mood for inconsequential chatter.  Sherlock and John reluctantly released their hands to attend to their meals.  Well, John was ready to eat, anyway.  Sherlock picked up his chopsticks and pushed his food around on the plate, trying to decide if it was worth the trouble to put anything he saw there in his mouth.  

“Sherlock, eat.”  John ordered.  He hadn’t seen Sherlock eat in two days and sincerely doubted he had been scarfing down even bags of crisps while John hadn’t been available to interrupt his unintentional plan to accidentally starve himself.  “Even transport needs fuel,” he offered, more kindly. 

Sherlock glanced at him sideways and slowly lifted a piece of duck to his mouth with all the gusto of an inmate headed toward the execution chair.

“Children,” John muttered under his breath, finally digging into his own food.

Watching this peculiar exchange, after all, Sherlock _is_ a grown man, in theory anyway, Lestrade couldn’t help but think that this pair was made for each other.  As brilliant as Sherlock was, there was still a certain vulnerability and helplessness about him, and John seemed to have the perfect blend of nurturer and army sergeant in him to deal with the willfulness.  They both seemed comfortable with the arrangement. 

With the server walking safely out of earshot, Lestrade chewed on his mustard greens thoughtfully.

“I just don’t get this.  This woman is hell bent to kill you, has twice had the opportunity to tell you why, but both times didn’t give you anything.  It _has_ to be personal and yet she remains silent.  I wonder if she confused you with someone else.  Or, I’m sure the thought must have crossed your mind that she is connected with a case.  Not to be offensive here, but if someone was going to go after either of you I would think it would be Sherlock.  Not because of his, er, delightful personality, but because he is usually the one at the forefront; he’s the one who puts the pieces together that implicate the perpetrator.”

Sherlock bristled, “Of _course_ I thought about the charming individuals of the underbelly of London that we’ve put away; their families as well. But as you say, it would be highly unlikely that John would be the primary target.  As luminous as he is, I would generally be a far more attractive one.”

John wasn’t quite sure if this was an insult, with Sherlock one just never knew, but decided to let it go.

Lestrade nodded gravely, as though he knew exactly what Sherlock was saying.

This was too much.  John looked from one to the other. “Seriously?  You’re going to sit there and debate whether I’m good enough to be the victim of attempted murder?  You _really_ need to get your priorities straight.” Christ.

“John, don’t be so sensitive.  I was merely pointing out that Albright most likely has a motive that is particular to you and has nothing to do with the work we do.”  Sherlock frowned, perplexed at John’s objection.

John glared back in annoyance.  Annoyed at the genius brain that could be so… _obtuse_ , annoyed that even when Sherlock was a being a prat, John couldn’t help but feel the pervading fondness he always carried inside him. 

Steering the discussion back to the matter at hand, he really didn’t want to get caught in the middle of a row right now, Lestrade tried once again to pin down a motive.  “Okay, John, then someone you’ve met who doesn’t have anything to do with the detective work, someone you’ve run across at the surgery maybe.  A friend or family member who was upset over how you treated, in the medical sense, their loved one, an outcome that was less favorable than expected.”

“Most of my patients don’t have life-threatening conditions, not that I’m at the clinic much anymore.  Mostly they have run-of-the-mill viruses or broken bones.  Haven’t had any deaths for quite some time.”  John just wasn’t seeing where someone not of an inherently criminal nature would want to hurt him. 

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

John and Lestrade heads snapped toward the sudden outburst.

Sherlock threw his napkin on the table.  “Take us home, Detective Inspector.”

* * *

 

Back at 221b Sherlock hung up his outerwear before quickly moving to John’s laptop.  He had been quiet on the way back to Baker St., ignoring the inquiries of his flatmate and the policeman as to what insight had caused his excitement.  Snapping open the computer, he logged on and connected to the internet: [www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/). 

“My blog?  What would my blog have to do with this?  The entries are about your detective work, not my personal life.”

“Here is your image, your name, available to a world of anonymous people.  You say it’s not about your personal life, but it _is_.  Your military service, your travels, your relationships; even if they aren’t detailed, they still are visible and very indicative of who you are and what you do. Here, look at this comment, John.”

Though he had seen the blog more times than he could count, after all he did write the bloody thing and did it very well, despite what Sherlock had to say about it, John peered over Sherlock’s left shoulder to see what he was talking about. 

With John’s head just inches away from his, the well-loved face bathed in the glow of the of the light, the strands of gray dancing with the dark blonde, the almost comical nose that suited John’s face so perfectly, Sherlock’s impatience got the best of him.  His arm darted around to the back of John’s neck, fingers splayed on his nape for a firm grasp to pull the surprised man towards him, closing his eyes as their lips roughly came together.  


	9. Together

This time, John didn't think twice. 

He leaned in to hold Sherlock’s face with his hands, meeting him butterfly kiss with butterfly kiss, tongue with tongue; the mouth he was savoring still tasting faintly of plum sauce and tea.  He groaned as Sherlock licked, then lightly bit his lower lip, tugging on it with great care before sliding his tongue back into John’s mouth to tease him some more.  

Sherlock reached up for John’s hand, sliding it over to his own mouth, sticking the middle finger between his moist lips, sucking the tip in. Jesus Christ, John thought, as Sherlock's tongue swirled around it, sliding it sensuously in and out of that warm, wet mouth. How could just a few square centimeters, on his _finger_ no less, be so erotic? The sensation sent a spark of electricity all the way to his groin as his eyes watched the pucker of dark pink lips.

Despite his aversion to food, Sherlock was actually a very oral person, his mouth coming in second only to his brain in his desire to explore. And right now he wanted so desperately to explore. Explore John Watson.

Sherlock opened his eyes, observing that John's had lost some of their focus, not that he wasn't similarly affected, but still…interesting. He willed his eyes to say "keep your eyes fixed on me".  John did not disobey. Sliding his hands under John’s jumper and t-shirt, he hitched them up a few inches, pressing his lips to the lean, soft belly.

"Breathe," Sherlock whispered against the body in front of him, semi-rigid from anticipation. John let his breath go and relaxed into the lips caressing a trail along his stomach, hazily realizing there was too much interference, too much goddamn clothing in the way; he peeled off his tops and tossed them to the floor beside them.  

Watching as John did this, seeing the enticing expanse of naked flesh beaconing him, Sherlock’s brain shut down and pure instinct kicked in.  In almost every other time of his life it was about a race to the finish, a competition with himself to see how quickly he could accomplish his objective.  But not this time.  This was about inhaling John Watson by any means he had available to him and being vibrantly aware every moment it happened. 

With his hands on John’s hips, one tucked into his waistband, he plied his lips across the doctor’s abdomen, stopping for a moment to lave the innie belly button.  Feeling a tremble accompany the low rumble he heard, he looked up to see John chuckling. 

“Ticklish?” he asked. 

 A somewhat pained expression on his face as he tried to hold in his laugh, John nodded, “Oh, yeah.”  Sherlock stored this information at the front of his brain, it could be very useful sometime; John’s giggle was not only delightful, it was infectious.  

Sherlock resumed his lazy journey up John’s body, lips following hands, hands following lips and tongue across the smooth, musky skin, here and there accenting with a small nip of his teeth. Somewhere along the way John found his hands finger-deep in Sherlock’s dark waves.  He was conflicted.  He wanted so badly to reach his mouth down into the curls, to kiss them, to taste them, but in doing so he would lose contact with the warm lips on his body.  He chose to wait. 

 

 

* * *

Every nerve-ending that Sherlock touched or tasted or left his breath on was on fire.  But underneath all that distraction, John was still quite aware that this foreplay(?) with Sherlock was different from any other experience he’d had.  It was common knowledge that he’d in fact had his fair share of romantic and sexual partners, but he couldn’t remember once ever having the sense of pure and utter ease he had at the moment with this man who was caressing him so exquisitely. John had never been an overly self-conscious man, but neither was he by any means vain.  He had always had moments of self-doubt with a new partner~ was he too short?  Was he a good enough lover?  How could anyone find his body, with its war wounds, sexually attractive?  But this…he felt totally relaxed with Sherlock, as though there was nothing he needed to or wanted to hide.  Amazing. 

He was startled when Sherlock rose from the chair, swallowing the disappointment he felt that this, whatever “this” was, was ending so soon.  But no, Sherlock was moving to lean against the table, the better to access John’s upper body.  Now they were practically eye level with each other.  Much better.  As Sherlock massaged his thumbs along the contours of John’s chest, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s slim torso, marveling again at the surprisingly muscular body underneath the taught silk shirt.  His eyes moved up until they looked straight into Sherlock’s, telling him what he couldn’t say in words~ he told him how little interest life would hold for him if Sherlock weren’t beside him, told him that he was beautiful, asked him to please, please never leave.  

Fully attentive to the fact that John was telling him something, but not quite sure what it was, Sherlock knew by the intensity in John’s eyes that it was important.  Letting John’s eyes hold his, Sherlock’s ghosted the fingers of his right hand along John’s scar, feeling the nubs of damaged tissue, the uneven ridges.  Moving to his collarbone, he traced a path to his neck, stopping only when they reached the chain hanging there; he rubbed the dog tags between his fingertips.  Seeing a brief flash of something in John’s eyes, (pain? regret? sorrow?), he picked the tags up and, eyes still locked with John’s, pressed them softly to his lips. Those two small pieces of metal represented all that Sherlock found worthy in John Watson~ bravery, strength, honor, compassion. The warmth that flooded his body caused him to feel as though he had stumbled onto the very core, the very essence of John. 

John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, releasing the air slowly.  He had never, no, not ever, had someone present such a tender gesture towards him.  And if he had ever imagined anyone would, he would never have thought it would have come from Sherlock Holmes.  

“Was that not good?” Sherlock asked tentatively.  He peered intently, trying to see what John’s face was saying, but he couldn’t read what was lying there. 

“No.  No, that was…good.”  John said, slowly shaking his head, his eyes downcast.  

“I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.” 

“I’m not, I’m not unhappy, Sherlock.”  John raised his eyes back up to the man he now full well knew he was in love with.  Finding Sherlock’s hand, he laced their fingers together and moved in the direction of his flatmate’s bedroom. 

“Let’s do this properly.”

* * *

 

Just moments earlier, as he had been exploring John’s body, Sherlock hadn’t been thinking of it as a sexual act.  It was intimate, certainly, but he hadn’t had a plan, he hadn’t thought about where, if anywhere, it might lead. He hadn’t thought about himself engaged in sex since his last boyfriend fifteen years ago.  Occasionally he woke up with an erection that needed tending to, but that wasn’t about sex, that was about seeing to a biological need.

 

Even to him it seemed pretty obvious what John meant by leading them to the bedroom and he by no means objected to making love to John.  There was no where he would rather be right then other than pressed up against this man that meant so much to him; the thought of being near John not only didn’t scare him, it exhilarated him.  But…this was the point in his previous relationships when they had started to fall apart; it was the culmination of all the flirting and necking and games.  After they bedded him his boyfriends would know they “had” him and would start to take advantage of him, leading him once again down the trail to a broken heart.  Sherlock did not want to head down that path again, did not want to head down that path with John.  John was too important.  He would rather live the rest of his life without ever touching John again and have him stay, than to lose him completely. 

* * *

 

Sensing Sherlock’s hesitation, John paused just inside the bedroom door, looking at Sherlock’s clouded face.  “We don’t have to do this you know.  I just thought, well, from what was going on out there” he nodded towards the sitting room, “ you wanted…” 

Reflecting, Sherlock decided it was true.  “Yes, John, your deductions were correct.” 

John’s next question took delicacy.  He didn’t want to offend Sherlock; he knew the detective’s usual response to anyone presuming he was afraid of something.   “I know from what you told me yesterday that it’s been, well, eons, since you’ve been with someone.  If you’re, uhm, not feeling up to it, that’s fine.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose in indignation “Are you trying to say I’m afraid, John?  I’m not _afraid._ Not of sex.”  

John readily caught the implication, if he wasn’t afraid of sex… “What is it you’re afraid… I mean, what is it that concerns you then, eh?”  John was unhappy to see the inscrutability that was so common to Sherlock settle on his face.  They had been through too much together the last few days for him to shut down now.  John decided to use a tactic that he’d seen Sherlock use many times to get witnesses to divulge information they hadn’t meant to share, he’d get the detective to contradict him; there was nothing Sherlock enjoyed better than being right. 

“It’s okay Sherlock, I understand.  You want to have sex, you just don’t want it with _me_ ; you were using me to warm yourself up for someone else.”  Feigning resignation, he hoped he’d played it right. 

“Don’t be an idiot, John, of course I want _you_ ,” Sherlock said with irritation, adding without thinking “I don’t want it to mean I will _lose_ you”. 

Aahhh, there it is, John thought.  But…what?!  His brows furrowed at this contradiction.  “What do you mean you will lose me?  From what I know, a physical relationship brings people closer together, it doesn’t push them apart.” 

“My experience has been different.”  Sherlock turned his head away from John pretending to examine the periodic table on the wall of his bedroom; he knew John was far too skilled at reading his face.  

“Sherlock, look at me.”  

Sherlock slowly turned to look at John.  He didn’t know how one human’s face could be home to so many different expressions, and the one on this man’s face right now was the same one that he had seen just before he had hugged him the night of the fire.  It was warm and welcome and it told him he was safe.  

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, gentleness radiating from his hand, from his eyes.  Gazing into flatmate’s eyes, he waited until Sherlock relaxed before he pulled away. 

“I’m going to go sit down; it’s been a hell of day.”  John wiped his face with his hand and walked the few feet to the bed, sitting on the edge.  He flopped down on his back, leaving his legs to hang over the edge.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock went and sat down beside him.  John patted the bed, indicating Sherlock should lie down, too; he did. 

As much as he craved it, John didn’t touch Sherlock, he didn’t want any outside stimulation to cloud Sherlock’s thinking.  He was going to get around Sherlock’s fears whether the git wanted him to or not. 

“Do you trust me, Sherlock?” he asked casually. 

“ _Trust_ you?  What kind of question is that?  I trust you with my life.” Sherlock gave a small hmmph at the idiotic question, certain that even John could not have forgotten he had saved Sherlock from the cabbie.  

“So, you trust me with your life.  What about your money; do I pay my share here?”  Though Sherlock had never told John what his financial situation was, he had no doubt there was money coming in from somewhere.  Even with such a modest flat, London rent was steep and there was no way the occasional stipend from a client covered it.  

“Of course, John.”  Sherlock didn’t understand these ridiculous questions. John would never take advantage of him.  When Sherlock had loaned John his card after that time he had the row with the chip and pin machine, John had spent no more than he had already planned for. 

“What about loyalty.  Am I loyal to you?  Do I always have your back even if it doesn’t involve your life being in danger?  Do I defend you when someone calls you, shit, a freak?”  (How he could despise Donovan sometimes.) 

Yes. Yes. Yes….. “Oh!” 

And there we have it, John thought.  The light bulb turned on in that great cavern of a mind.  Now, the final question. 

“Do you consider me your friend, Sherlock?”  John knew the answer to this, but he didn’t know if Sherlock did. 

Sherlock lay there, silent.  Friend?  He didn’t have friends, did he? Or _did_ he?  Rolling to his side, he propped his head onto his hand and answered, his deep voice rendered even deeper by the huskiness emotion brought to it. 

“Yes, John, I do.” 

Sherlock knew what John had been trying to get through to him with his questions.  What caused those other relationships to falter so badly had nothing to do with sex or love or even who the people were.  They failed because, as much as Sherlock had adored them, the lack of trust and loyalty would have destroyed the relationships, if not sooner, then later.  Thinking back, Sherlock couldn’t name a single one of them that he had considered a true friend. 

“Oh, I forgot one,” John said with an impish twinkle in his eye.  “Lust.  Do you lust after me?” 

“I think you know the answer,” Sherlock growled, as he dipped his head down to John’s chest, pecking small kisses down the middle, down his abdomen, stopping when he reached John’s belt buckle.  When he unclasped it, John wriggled out of his jeans, leaving his pants on for the time being; he felt it a bit unfair for him to be naked while Sherlock was totally dressed.  

“My turn,” John said as he set about denuding Sherlock.  By now Sherlock had crawled all the way up on the bed, his head on the pillows as John kneeled over his hips, staring into those bottomless blue eyes. John wasn’t sure quite how he was pulling it off, but Sherlock managed to look amused and happy and lustful all at the same time.  His chest grew warm thinking he’d never seen such upbeat animation in that face before.   

As John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, both his breathing and the unbuttoning sped up the further down Sherlock’s long body he went.  He really wasn’t sure how he was even keeping himself together at this point; he had wanted them to go for the slow burn, but Jesus, a man could only take so much.  He didn’t think he had ever seen anyone as beautiful as Sherlock and the hardness he could feel pressing into his groin from Sherlock’s trousers, made him seep from his own hard on.  

“Sherlock, love, you’re going to have to help this along or else I’m going to come in my pants like a teenage boy.” 

As intriguing as he found that picture in his mind, Sherlock didn’t want to miss out on anything with this experience with John. _John._   

Sherlock swatted John’s thigh.  “Off”, he commanded, quickly sitting up to the side of the bed when John moved from him, hastily stripping himself from the rest of his clothing.  Looking at John’s pants, he jerked his head to the side in an obvious order for John to rid himself of them. 

Both now totally devoid of clothing, they took in the sight of each other, both of them in wonder at the thought that here they were, together, naked, and neither could summon much to mind other than how natural and _necessary_ it was for them to be together like this.  There was no time left for exploration or gentleness, the overriding need was… release.  

They brought their bodies together in that need, John’s legs and arms wrapping around Sherlock’s sitting form, Sherlock smashing his mouth to John’s, panting, wanting, holding him as though to let him go would send him spinning off into the universe.  John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair, on his face, stroking that long, elegant neck.  Sherlock shuddered. 

John brought his hand to Sherlock’s mouth, prompting him to moisten it with his saliva, watching Sherlock’s eyes hood over in desire, his mouth parting.  John reached down with his slick palm and rubbed it on the head of Sherlock’s erection, adding to the moisture with pre-come.  Finding it sufficient, he grasped Sherlock’s shaft in his hand, sliding it up and down, slowly, then faster as Sherlock breath quickened, his head tipping back in pleasure.  Something deep inside John trembled in desire at the gorgeous vision in front of him.  Moistening his palm, he set to providing his own satisfaction, though he wasn’t sure he couldn’t have come just watching Sherlock’s ecstasy, watching as Sherlock tightly grasped the rails of his headboard and pushed his groin up, again and again, into the hand that was so effectively sending him on a journey unlike any other, from hearing that sensual voice groan his name as the come pushed out in spurts onto his hand, the throbbing slowing as Sherlock’s breathing calmed and his body relaxed into the bed.  John came in a sudden burst, his own breathing rapid, then slowing, the intensity of his orgasm causing him to collapse into a boneless mass onto the pale body below him. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the prone form atop him.  Flexing his biceps to give John a loving squeeze, he kissed the blonde head, and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, fell into a deep, restful sleep.


	10. Blog

Sherlock's brain snapped awake in the dark room.   
  
The first thing he noticed was that he was not alone. He had slept alone for so many years that had the thought occurred to him to question what it would be like to have anyone, anything, whether person, dog, or marmot in his bed with him he would have sniffed at the thought in distaste. Beds are for sleeping (when absolutely necessary) and for nothing and no one else. Yet...he found it was not entirely unpleasant to wake up with John pressed up against him from head to toe. In fact, if he were to admit the truth, he thought well, maybe, it might have been a good thing. After all he'd slept better than he ever had and though he put no store in sleeping more than a few hours at a time, it pleased him to know that it would make John happy.

Spooned around the back of John, knees behind knees, groin up against his bum, his arm around John’s chest, and cheek resting against the back of his head, he was surprised at how much he did not want to move. Yet, as satisfying as this was, he had spent far too much time mooning over his flatmate and not enough trying to stop Albright. He carefully moved John's hand off of his hip and slid out from underneath the covers, taking the opportunity to kiss his sleeping bedmate on the shoulder as he slid out of bed.   
  
Finding clean pants and his robe, he padded into the sitting room and found that the laptop had died. Of course, it had. He hadn't thought to turn it off before...well, that.  He attached the power cord to it and turned it on, the bright light the only illumination in the room save that from the street lamps. Opening the server to John's blog, he contemplated the face smiling at him. Inviting, friendly, a handsome face with the wisp of fringe on his forehead.... he in no way regretted saying "yes' the day before to John's request to give them a chance.   
  
Determined to get some work done, he opened the small drawer in the desk and pulled out a sticky note, placing it over John's picture. Hmmm, that didn’t work, he could still see John's face through the thin paper. Taking five more notes out, he stuck them over the first sheet. There.  Now he can think undistracted.   
  
Sherlock wasn't a religious follower of John's blog, but he did take a look once in a while to make sure that John kept the focus on the cases and that he wasn't making Sherlock seem _too_ human; more times than he could count he had had to remind John "it's about the work". He had seen the comment in question on the blog the week before but thought nothing of it; it had been generic and bland. Boring.  
  
 _"Love your blog, Dr. Watson! So fascinated by the exciting adventures you and your flatmate get involved in. I'm a bit of an amateur sleuth myself and would love to pick your brain over a pint. I'll be in London next week if it would suit your schedule. Can't wait to hear from you! ~ L.A.”_  
  
While not terribly informative, in light of what had happened in the last couple of days, he now viewed it differently. It appeared to be from a woman or an effeminate man - they were usually the ones that used such effusive language and exclamation marks. Sherlock had initially thought "L.A" had stood for Los Angeles, but now he saw it most certainly stood for Lucinda Albright. She had obviously been trying to draw John out, and when John had not responded, chose to search him out. There had been a reference or two to the Ram's Head in the blog so she, successfully, took a chance at finding him there. _Was_ she a bit of a sleuth, or was that just part of the ruse to get next to him?  
  
Sitting for a few moments, he took in the words on the screen, unable to conclude anything else of importance. He turned off the computer and shut the lid, leaving him once again in almost total darkness. Finding and opening his violin case he removed the instrument, briefly tuned it, and fetching the bow, took up his spot in front of the window to play while he shut out the rest of the world.   


* * *

  
  
Sherlock heard the rustle of a newspaper and dropped the bow to his side. When had John come into the room? He turned around to see John's eyes smiling at him over the open paper. "Good Morning," John said, his hair slicked back, still damp from his shower.   
  
"John."   
  
Though not always happy about it, John was never less than impressed that Sherlock was able to take his simple 4-lettered name and with the slightest of changes in intonation convey a seemingly infinite number of emotions, questions, and commands. With just one syllable.   
  
In this particular instance it was an instruction to follow him to the laptop on the desk. John set his paper down and followed Sherlock, who sat down and turned the computer back on. As he stood beside Sherlock, he was unable to totally put aside in his mind what had happened in that same spot last night.  He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, now wasn't that a corker? It was going to take him a while to absorb. 

He took the liberty of planting a kiss on the puddle of curls at Sherlock’s temple, knowing it might take some fine tuning to get a sense of what the acceptable level of physical contact would be with his sometimes prickly new partner.  He himself was not one to hang all over his lovers, but he did like to be affectionate. 

Sherlock appeared not to notice the peck.  That went well then.  
  
Concentrating on the screen in front of him, Sherlock pointed out the blog entry that L.A. submitted. "What did you think about this, John?" It took all he had not to show his reaction to John's lips on his temple; what he really wanted to do was reach up and kiss John like he had last night, demanding and searching. No, he needed to keep his priorities straight; he cleared his throat and resumed the business at hand.  
  
John knew he was being asked about the blog entry, but he was distracted by the sticky notes on the screen, absent of any… actual notes on them. "What? The sticky notes? Didn't know my picture was that bad," he joked.  
  
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably; he didn't know whether or not that was a joke and chose in favor of ignoring the comment. "No, John, the entry from L.A., you didn't respond to it. Why was that? It appears you answer almost all of the comments.  Was there something that put you off about this one?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess there was, even though I didn't really think about it at the time. I don't get that many comments and most of them are pretty dry. This one seemed a bit off since it was so enthusiastic. I've had a couple almost like that before and they've turned out to be fans of _yours_ of all things, using me to try to get close to you. And I just didn't think you would take too kindly to the intrusion." John knew that Sherlock barely tolerated most people he actually  knew and to unleash him on some poor unsuspecting soul who would be mistaken in thinking that Sherlock was perhaps a cuddly bear underneath it all, well, he just didn't have a heart for the carnage.   
  
"I don’t have fans.  Do I?  Why would I have fans?"  
  
"Some people find you to be exceptionally gifted in your detective work. They want to pit their brains against The Great Sherlock Holmes, thinking they might outwit you."  
  
Sherlock frowned, he couldn't imagine anyone delusional enough to think they could out-deduce him. "That would never happen," he said, clearly thinking that anyone with such a notion would need to be examined by a psychiatric specialist from the NHS.  
  
"I know, Sherlock. So I try to save both you and the public the frustration of letting you meet each other any more than you have to."  
  
Sherlock persisted in his inquiry. "But you _have_ answered most submissions before this one. Why not this one? You said it was too enthusiastic.  Anything else?"  
  
John thought about it. There had to be something else, what was it?  "They never want to meet  me and they usually call me John, not Dr. Watson. I can't say any more than that why it niggles at me, but it does."  
  
"I have to say I agree, John. It holds some significance to her that you are a doctor. And she is _visiting_ London, so she wasn't one of your patients. I would say it wasn't anything to do with a relative of hers or she would already have known who you were. I think there is somewhere else she knows  of you and seeing your blog, chose to make contact." Something made Sherlock hesitate before he added, "I suspect it has something to do with your service in Afghanistan." 

"I keep thinking back to the dog tags Anderson found in the fire. Lestrade said he was able to contact the homeowner and she said she didn't have any mementos of the sort. How did they get there unless Albright had them with her?  _Why_ did she have them with her? ”

"I have to ask, John, was there anything especially unusual, anything untoward you did whilst in service? If this is some personal vendetta, as Lestrade suggested last night, then it could have something to do with your activities in Afghanistan.  And if it’s personal, then it would be related to something that happened to a loved one.  Mycroft’s research showed that she herself is not attached to the military in any manner.  In fact, she’s a school teacher in Manchester, someone you wouldn’t have crossed paths with." 

Sherlock's eyes clouded over, he was clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter and the fact that he felt he needed to ask the question. Despite this, he was able to look John straight in the eye; he wanted him to know that whatever the answer to his question was John would not be judged poorly.  Sherlock had unwavering confidence in John’s moral compass, knowing there was nothing that John could tell him that would lessen his respect for him.  
  
"If you're asking me if I killed, yes, I did. But I don't think that's it.  I think even you know that to go to war means taking other people's lives. If I said I think what you're asking is if I played judge and jury unjustly, would I be correct?"  
  
"Yes, that is what I am asking,” Sherlock concurred.  “I know that sometimes war can bring out uncharacteristic behaviour in people,” relieved that John did not appear to take offense at the question, instead treating it matter of factly.  
  
"No, Sherlock," John said softly, knowing Sherlock's question wasn't intended as an indictment.  John knew well that what Sherlock said was true, too many times he had seen men under intense pressure commit acts that he knew they would never commit if they weren't at war. "I'm by no means a saint, I know you know that, but did I ever kill or maim someone that wasn't an imminent threat? No."   
  
Sherlock nodded solemnly, he had had no desire and saw no need to pursue the matter.  Finished with the inquiry for the moment, he stretched to his full height, pausing on the way up to plant a kiss on John's temple.

 Aahh, he _had_ noticed, John thought.   
  
"We’re going down to Scotland Yard.  Why don't you get something to eat while you wait for me to get changed."   Sherlock stood just inches away from John, looking down at him, silver eyes meeting dark blue ones.  After a few moments, without another word, he broke the gaze and exited the room.

John watched after him as he headed to his bedroom, wistfully thinking he would like nothing more than to take his flatmate back to bed and stay there the rest of the day and with no agenda more important than just being _together_.   


* * *

  
  
Two pieces of toast with strawberry jam, a half can of beans, and two cups of tea later, John wondered what was taking Sherlock so long.  Walking over to Sherlock’s room, he gave a light rap on the door, and getting no answer, pushed the cracked door open.  Sherlock was sitting on the bed, elbows leaning on his knees, fingers steepled to his chin, eyes unblinking.  John sighed.  Sherlock was the only person he knew who could literally get lost in thought. 

“Sherlock.” 

Nothing. 

” _Sherlock._ ”  

“Pack your bag, John, we’re going to Manchester.” 

“What?”  John asked, confused.  “Why are we going to Manchester, then?” 

“Think, John.  We aren’t having any progress finding her here in London, but perhaps we can find some clues to what she is doing here.  We need to go to the source.”

* * *

 

Bag packed (Sherlock had unceremoniously shoved a few necessities into John’s) they made their way to Euston Station.  After buying their tickets, John shepherded his tall, dark companion to Platform 10, weaving through the herds of travelers and commuters while Sherlock pecked at his phone, texting Lestrade to find out if he had any counterparts in Manchester that could assist them.  

As the train pulled away from the platform, John saw a lone figure standing there. She almost looked like a spirit, the pale face and red hair, her body covered in a long green cape.   A chill ran through him as he saw the face that he knew he would probably have nightmares about for years to come, for standing outside the train was Lucinda Albright.  Holy fucking hell, how did she know they were there?  

“Sherlock!  She’s out there.”  To emphasize his point, John thrust his finger at the window. 

Startled by John’s outburst, Sherlock knew there was only one “she” he could be talking about.  He quickly turned to look out the window but saw no one; the train had already pulled far enough out that he couldn’t see enough of the area to confirm John’s sighting.  She had to have followed them there from Baker St.,  there was no way she could have known ahead of time that they were going to be there for they hadn’t known themselves until a brief time ago. 

_She’s here at Euston Station, Platform 10.  Get one of your officers here to find her. NOW. SH_  

_You sure it was her?_    Lestrade’s return text popped on the screen. 

_How soon do you think John will forget her face?  SH_

_Right then, I’ll get someone on it.  Did she get on the train?_

_No.  SH_

While Sherlock texted, he kept looking up from the phone screen to look at John.  His stomach curled at the distinct look of horror on John’s face.  That more than anything concerned him, he had never seen fear on John Watson’s face before and he knew with certainty it was something he never wanted to see again. 

“She knows where we’re going, Sherlock.  There’s another train that leaves in 20 minutes, she could be right behind us.”  John’s voice was flat. 

Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and reached out for John’s hand, enfolding it firmly in a nest made from his palms and fingers. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock said to John’s profile as his friend looked out the window at the snowy scenery that was passing by. 

John kept watching out the window, quietly engrossed by the cacophony of questions running through his mind. 

“ _Look_ at me,” Sherlock repeated, with a measure of command in his voice. 

Slowly, John looked toward him.  His lips pressed together grimly, he met Sherlock’s eyes as they bore into him. 

Sherlock spoke slowly and distinctly, needing to make sure John heard and understood his message.  “She is not going to harm you.  Ever again.  I _will_ _not_ allow it.  She will have to kill me before she ever lays a hand on you again.” 

John heard the words.  He saw the fierce determination of them on Sherlock’s face.  It both disquieted him and thrilled him to know his lover spoke them as an absolute truth.   This was an unusual position for John.  He was used to being the one to take care of Sherlock, to be _his_ protector.  He couldn’t say he was comfortable with the turnaround, but he was deeply moved by the fact that Sherlock felt so protective and possessive of him.  

John withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s hold and grabbing the coat collar on each side of his neck, pulled Sherlock’s willing lips to his own to show him exactly how he felt.  


	11. Die

Sherlock had meant what he said; he would rather die than see anything happen to John.  It wasn’t so much because he loved John, which he certainly did, but more that John had become a part of him.  Just as he would have been lost without his music, without his work, without the very blood in his veins or the air he breathed, he would be lost without John Watson.  He wasn’t quite sure why that was.  He had lived alone all these years, no one to partner with him on his cases, no one to tell him to eat or sleep, no one to tell him something was “a bit not good”; he had done quite well on his own.  But now he couldn’t imagine a world without the man sitting beside him. 

And he wouldn’t want to live a life without him.  

Sherlock continued to hold John’s hand on the journey to Manchester, reluctant to break the physical contact he knew would end when they arrived at their destination.  He had to admit to himself he liked the warm pressure of John’s hand against his own, the occasional gentle squeeze telling him that even though John was quiet, he remembered Sherlock was there with him.  He took his mobile out of his pocket and texted with one thumb; it was more difficult than with two, certainly, but worth the trouble if it meant he could keep John’s touch. 

_Did you find her?  SH_

Lestrade responded after a few minutes.  _No.  It was like she disappeared into thin air. Strange one, this.  How’s John?_

_He hasn’t spoken much. SH_

_He’s probably more disturbed than he wants to admit.  I’ve arranged for a friend of mine, Inspector Dealey, to meet you at the station._

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and leaned his head back against the seat.  He watched the passengers around him, trying to clear his mind by deducing their private lives, instead finding all he could think about was what he really wanted to do was bury his face in John’s neck and inhale the sweet scent he knew he would find there. 

* * *

 

"She will have to kill me before she ever lays a hand on you again."  
  
With those words, John felt the tectonic shift of their relationship. In the last few days there had been startling changes to be sure, from finding out that Sherlock loved him, to the kisses, to sex. But to hear that Sherlock would be willing, no, adamant, that he would lay down his own life to keep John safe, well, for that there were no words.   
  
He had given brief consideration to the possibility that Sherlock had been putting one over on him; after all, the detective was a consummate actor. But he could think of no reason for Sherlock to be lying and John had a good instinct for when his flatmate was doing just that.  
  
No. Sherlock had revealed himself at the most basic level.   
  
John continued to look out the window of the speeding train, thinking about the madwoman and wondering what could be driving her desire to kill him, every so often applying pressure to the reassuring hand that held his.   
  
They traveled the rest of the way to Manchester with only the sound of the train and the quiet conversations around them to break the silence, their hands clasped together as a symbol of their deepening bond.   


* * *

  
  
Arriving at Picadilly Station, though he’d never seen him before, Inspector Dealey was not difficult for Sherlock to pick out of the small crowd at the end of the platform; he could have easily been a businessman, but his stance and assured air of authority gave him away as the law enforcer he was.

Striding over to Dealey with John at his side with the overnight bag, Sherlock nodded to him, “Sherlock Holmes,” and with a small tilt of his head, “Dr. John Watson”.   John nodded his head towards the Inspector in greeting.

Inspector Dealey held out his hand, but Sherlock blithely ignored it. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” the Inspector said, letting his hand fall awkwardly back to his side.  “Greg’s an old friend of mine, so when he asked me the favor of helping you two out, I was more than happy to.”

“Greg?”  Sherlock looked at Dealey, momentarily confused.

John leaned in close to him and mouthed “Lestrade”, rolling his eyes and giving an exasperated shake of his head.  Jesus.  How many more ID’s did the genius have to nick before he knew the man’s name?

“Yes”, Sherlock affirmed, as though he’d known exactly who the Inspector had spoken of.  “We’re here to see what we can find out about a woman by the name of Lucinda Albright; she’s made two attempts on John’s life in the last 3 days, the second time kidnapping him to do so.  For an ordinary citizen she is quite resourceful and we intend to see that she has no more opportunities.  Did… _Greg…_ ” looking pointedly at John, “inform you that she was at the station when our train pulled out?”

“He did, and he sent me a picture which I’ve distributed to the force.  I have an officer positioned here to watch the passengers get off the next few trains to see if she followed. I would be happy to assist you by any means necessary while you are in town.”   Dealey had been told that though this Holmes character could be a little difficult to deal with he was more than capable in the art of deduction.  He had also been informed that the detective’s methods could be a little out of the ordinary and wanted to be sure protocol was followed.

“I prefer to work alone save the assistance of John, but I’ll take your phone number in the unlikely case we require any aid.”  Sherlock’s demeanor declared he would brook no unwanted interference.

Dealey bristled, he wasn’t used to being ordered around by a civilian.  He took a deep breath and summoned his patience. Lestrade had warned him.  He trusted Greg’s instincts, so he decided to back off and would step in only if requested or if things got out of hand.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John made the half mile walk to the hotel Dealey recommended.  The walk was an easy one; the snow that had put a damper on the London streets had not made an appearance in Manchester.  When the clerk at the desk asked if they would like a double room, out of habit John started to say “We’re not a…”, but caught himself and with a flash of a grin, corrected himself.  “Yes,” he stated, though he did take a quick look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye to see what his reaction might be.  The detective appeared not to have heard the exchange as he eyed the small lobby they stood in.

“Yes,” he reiterated, “we’ll take a double.”

* * *

John set the bag down by the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed while Sherlock took off his coat, tossed it onto the chair, and checked the bathroom and closet. For what, John didn't know. It wasn't like anyone knew they were in town and even if they did, they wouldn't have known where they were. He bounced a couple of times, checking the firmness of the mattress. It would do.

  
He watched as Sherlock approached him, having finished with his inspection of the room, eyes dark with...what? When Sherlock nodded his head and with a glance at the bed indicated John should scoot up further on the bed, he complied, as a throb of desire coursed through him. Sherlock knelt on the bed, one knee on each side of him and, towering over him, leaned down until his lips hovered just a whisper of a breath over his own. John's eyes fluttered closed as he did so, his lips parting in anticipation of that beautiful Cupid’s bow mouth meeting his eager one. Instead, he felt the soft brush of Sherlock's lips at the base of his throat, causing his head to tip back as he took a deep breath, heady with longing. Sherlock didn’t lie on John, but lowered himself enough that the doctor could feel the warm length of him, the lightest pressure of their two bodies coming together.   
  
"John...," Sherlock murmured against the prone man's neck as his soft lips caressed the pulse beating beneath the hot skin there, his thumb finding and swirling a circle on John's left wrist.  
  
Relaxing into the submissive position, John didn't know how he even had the breath to say "Do we really have to talk NOW, Sherock?" annoyed that Sherlock had to choose that moment to find something to say. Still he was curious to know what his hot and cold partner might have to say in a moment of obvious passion.  
  
Kissing John's Adam's apple, "We."  Then a lingering kiss to his jawline. "Have". A small tug on an earlobe. “To,” he said, followed by a generous kiss full on his mouth. "Go".   
  
John groaned as Sherlock lifted himself back off the bed, leaving him achingly bereft.  “I never would have guessed you for a tease.”  Everything about the doctor, from his voice to his body language, said “frustrated.”

“Tease?”  Sherlock’s nose crinkled in puzzlement.

“Yes, you bugger, promising something but not following through.”

“I didn’t promise anything.  I simply gave you a gesture of affection, isn’t that what someone in…what someone who cares about someone, would do?  If I had continued beyond what I did and done what I, don’t for a moment be mistaken, wanted to do, you would not have the strength to go to Ms. Albright’s place of employment this afternoon.”

“Uhh…oh.”  John really didn’t know what to say to that, his mind busy with the possibilities implied but not offered.  Unhappily, he rose from the bed and stood facing Sherlock.

“But if you would rather not find your attempted killer, after which we can spend as much time as it takes to exhaust each other into an incoherent state without this distasteful situation hanging over us, then by all means, lay back down on the bed and you’ll have no need to call me a tease” he said with annoyance.

John considered Sherlock’s statement for a moment, regrettably realizing it would be prudent to wait for a more practical time to join Sherlock in bed.

“No.” John gave his head a disappointed shake.  “No, let’s find her and be done with it.”  He looked up at the honed face in front of him, resolutely straightening himself.  “Then it’s you and me, with nothing and no one to get in the way.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened at the declaration.  As much as he might be inclined to with anyone else, he couldn’t doubt John’s desire for him.  Had he considered “luck” to have any presence in his life, he would consider himself a very lucky man indeed.  He leaned down and pressed his lips against the impish ones, wishing it was the right time to do so much more.

* * *

 

On the way to the school, they instructed the cabbie stop at a corner florist shop where Sherlock purchased a dozen long-stemmed roses nestled in ferns and baby’s breath, a deep purple ribbon tying them together. 

Though John knew the role the flowers would be playing, he still couldn’t help but be glad that they were a pretense.  After the embarrassing exchange that night at Angelo’s when Sherlock had all but proclaimed he was asexual, John had given little consideration to whether or not Sherlock would ever become romantically entangled, be it with a man or a woman.  But seeing this gorgeous man standing there with a bouquet of roses in hand, well, he was doubly glad it was all a ruse.  He didn’t think he could have stayed at 221b if his flatmate were to date someone, it would squeeze his heart dry of every drop of blood he had to see Sherlock with anyone.  Anyone but himself. 

He knew it was irrational, but John felt a pang of jealousy as he watched Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, do his best impression of a lovesick man (and  damn if he wasn’t good at it, the mad bastard) as he cajoled the school secretary into giving him information about their absent teacher.

“She didn’t tell me she went out of town,” the consulting detective pouted.  “You see,” he shared conspiratorially with the secretary, “we fell in love but I promised her I wouldn’t contact her again until I told my wife we were over, which we all but were when I met Lucinda.  I’ve moved out of the house and started the divorce proceedings and well, here I am,” he added, triumphantly. 

Miss Bartlett must have had a good 18 years on the man standing in front of her, but she batted her eyes like a 15 year old ready to kiss her first beau.  “Yes, I can see you’re terribly in love, but she went on holiday a week ago; she won a cruise in a contest and that was why she had to leave in the middle of the school year.  I’m so glad she’s found love again, she was so distraught after her fiancée passed away last year.”  She paused and blushed (really?!  Did she really just _blush_?).  “I so wish she were here to see you, I’m sure she’ll be very sorry indeed.” 

Sherlock shifted a quick glance at John.  Fiancée?  “Yes, she was terribly heartbroken, my poor bunny,” he said, directing the comment to Miss Bartlett.

“You could make it up to her by giving me her address; she gave it to me, but I’m terribly disorganized and well, I’m embarrassed to say I’ve lost it.  We always met at that little café down the street you see, so I never had the need to go to her flat.”  Sherlock, damn him, bit his lower lip, emphasizing its lushness. John felt like stepping on Sherlock’s foot to get him to tone it down; he didn’t know how much more he could take.  Sherlock had attracted a small crowd of women around him, all fawning over him in their attempts to get his attention.  John was dismayed to see just how good he was in this role. 

 “I want to fill her flat with roses for when she comes home; don’t you think that would just be the most romantic thing you could imagine?”

The secretary almost swooned at the thought of a lover offering such a grand gesture.   She wavered.  “Well, I don’t know…”

He just about had her. 

 “Lucy lives in the Royal Guard flats over on Corning Street, just three blocks over,” the young blonde aide offered up, practically salivating in her attempt to get Sherlock to look her way. 

“Oh, thank you!” Sherlock exclaimed, the ardency of a man in love shining from his face.  “We’ll be sure to invite you to the wedding!” He received a chorus of sighs in response.  He half-bowed as he held the flowers out for Miss Bartlett take.  “Please, take these as a gesture of gratitude for your helpfulness.  I wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”

Miss Bartlett beamed, reaching out for the flowers as though they were a newborn child.  “My pleasure!  Anything to help a young couple in love,” she gushed.

Sherlock turned, and taking his coat from his “manservant”, as he’d told them John was, brusquely walked toward the hallway that would lead them out of the building, his face devoid of even a hint of the mask he had been wearing. 

“It will never cease to amaze me how little the female sex has evolved,” he uttered with barely disguised disgust.  Sherlock pulled out his mobile and entered “Manchester Royal Guard” in the search engine, quickly finding the address.  

“Let’s get you something to eat and then go take a look at Miss Albright’s flat.”

* * *

 

They lingered over their Thai food as they waited for the early winter dusk to arrive.  While John ate, occasionally coaxing Sherlock to eat a few bites under protestation, the detective texted Inspector Dealey to find out if his officer had spotted Albright arrive in Manchester on any of the subsequent trains.  She had not.

Finally, under the cover of dark, they stepped out into the cold night air and headed in the direction of Albright’s flat.  Arriving at the unmanned entrance, they followed a tenant in, Sherlock apologizing as he pretended to fumble for a key that didn’t exist. 

After making their way to the third floor landing, they found flat number 302.  Sherlock pulled the small tool set out of his inner pocket and proceeded to pick the lock in matter of moments.  With no light switch inside the door, he flipped the switch of his pocket flashlight and finding a table lamp, turned it on. 

The sight illuminated before them caused John’s blood to run cold.  He stood stone still as he sharply took in a startled breath.  “Fuck.  Me.”  One often saw this in crime shows, but those were fiction, and this, _this_ was terribly real and terribly personal.

“As I told you earlier John, I would be happy to do so, but now is not the time,” Sherlock said absentmindedly.

John would have laughed if it weren’t for the two disturbing sights in front of him.

One was the glee that danced in Sherlock’s eyes above the half-smile poised on his face, his fingers fluttering in delight at the sight before him.

The other was the wall they both stared at in the small flat. 

For pinned on the longest wall of the sitting room were dozens of photographs in varying sizes.  Photographs of John, with the word “DIE” sprawled across them in bold, red letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels SO good to write and post another chapter!! My apologies for how long it's been. The bad news, I've been working a death-defying number of hours. The good news, I've seen Sir Paul McCartney in concert twice in the last 3 weeks...I'm in Heaven!


	12. Declarations

Cutting through John’s haze was the realization that the man he had made love to not that many hours ago was delighted to see the photographs of him that were further evidence of the deranged mind that stalked him.  Somewhere inside his discord he knew he really shouldn’t be surprised, after all, Sherlock had many times become excited at life-threatening situations that left most of the rest of the world repulsed. But this...this was untenable.  Sherlock had all but declared his love for him and because of this John thought even the often obtuse detective would be more sensitive to the feelings of his partner.

But he was wrong about that.  Maybe Sherlock was right, maybe he _was_ an idiot. 

“I need to get some air,” he ground out, clenching his left hand open and shut, flexing his fingers when they weren’t digging into his palm.

Sherlock turned at the sound of John’s voice, his lack of understanding causing his thick brows to furrow.  As John began to back towards the door, Sherlock reached out to grab John’s arm, holding only onto thin air as the soldier shrugged him off.

“No, Sherlock.  Just…no.  You can’t…be so, so…”  He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, he was too angry and confused.  He had to let himself out before he did or said something he would regret.

Sherlock let his hand drop and stared after the retreating figure.  What had he done?  He always felt unsettled when John needed to “get some air” since it usually meant John was angry at something Sherlock had done and he never knew how to fix it.  Though he almost always followed John when he left, he could sense this time was different than when he was off to meet a mate for a pint or visit his sister Harry in an effort to cool off.   There was a depth to this anger that caused cold fear to run through his body. 

Sherlock struggled to name the sense of abandonment that started to surface, tried to stifle it; John would come around, he always had.  He would this time, too.

Wouldn’t he?

* * *

 

John pulled the flat door closed behind him with a solid click as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway.  Leaning back against the wall, he huffed deep breathes of air in and out, in and out, concentrating on calming himself down.  Now wasn’t the time to let himself get out of control.  After all, he was supposed to be the one with common sense, wasn’t he?  _Someone_ in this partnership had to exhibit rational behaviour.  And it certainly wasn’t going to be the man he left alone in the room. 

As his breathing returned to normal, so did his senses.  He reminded himself that for all Sherlock’s eccentricities, the detective had the guilelessness of a child in the purest sense.  He knew that despite some of the characteristics that so many found unacceptable, Sherlock never wished anyone harm.  Well, at least not anyone that didn’t hurt someone he cared about.  John almost felt ashamed that he had had such a violent reaction to Sherlock’s glee.  He knew with certainty that the thing he most valued about Sherlock was his unrestrained passion for all things important to him, including John.  How could he fault that?  He couldn’t.  He truly felt humbled that this magnificent creature, this incomparable being, chose _him_ to love.  And if it meant that sometimes John would be uncomfortable with how Sherlock demonstrated his enthusiasms, then so be it, it was a small price to pay for all the ways he benefited by being with Sherlock.  If he, John, didn’t understand and accept who Sherlock was, then did he even deserve to be with him?  Whatever John did or didn’t deserve, Sherlock needed to have someone love him without reserve.  John would be that person.

Reaffirming his commitment to the life he shared with the consulting detective, John felt sufficiently bolstered to withstand whatever unusual pleasure Sherlock found in the hunt for Albright.  Eager to see his lover again even though it had been mere minutes, John turned to step back into the flat.

The flat door opened before he could put his hand on the knob. Sherlock hastily stepped through the doorway towards the stairs, caught off guard when he saw John out of the corner of his eye.  John watched as Sherlock stopped short, the panic on his face replaced by sudden relief.  The doctor felt a quick stab of hot remorse, knowing his actions were the cause of the panic.  He, of all people, should know that beneath Sherlock’s veneer of indifference beat the heart of a man that had a great need to be loved.  The heart of a man who had a great capacity _to_ love.  John knew he needed to be more heedful of how he handled that fragile organ.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice softly beseeching.  He stretched his hand out towards John, stopping midway to allow the other man the opportunity to make the decision whether or not he wanted to take it.

His hand continued to poise mid-air as he said “John” again, this time his rich voice barely a whisper as his eyes implored John to reach out to him. 

The last bit of his anger drained from him as John watched this man that he had come to live and breathe for humble himself before him.  Humble himself for _him_.  Sherlock was the most proud, most arrogant person he knew, yet for this simple doctor he would shed his armor, toss aside the cloak of superiority he wore to shield himself from the rest of the world, and lay himself bare.  John didn’t think he could love anyone more than he did this man; he almost literally ached with the love he felt for Sherlock. 

His hand reached out, the short stout fingers folding into the long thin ones, as he followed Sherlock back into the flat.

Sherlock closed the door behind them and casting aside all thoughts that didn’t have to do with the small, but formidable, presence in front of him aside, asked “Tell me John, what did I do to upset you?”  He knew he had done _something_ to upset this man that meant so much to him, he just didn’t know what it was.  He had never given much credence to feelings, and though he really paid no heed to what other people thought about him, he found that what this man thought held great importance for him.

John’s mouth opened to answer, but the only sound that escaped it was the soft moan that came from deep within him as Sherlock brought John’s hand up to his mouth, sensuously pressing his lips firmly to the palm before bringing it to his own face.  John feared his heart would burst with longing for the insanely stunning vision before him, the brilliant blue eyes watching him intently as he tried to catch his breath.  His hand gently caressed the strong cheek, his thumb stretching out to smooth along the devastatingly full lower lip.  Sherlock’s eyes softened under the attention. John shivered. 

“Why can’t I breathe?” he thought. 

Finding his breath, he spoke, soft and low, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly in reassurance that he would give whatever John had to say his full attention.

John heard himself say something he had never said to anyone ever before aside from his family, yet he held not even the slightest misgiving about its absolute truth. Nor did he have any doubt that it was the absolute right thing to say; with the same certainty that he knew his name was John Watson, he knew that he was safe.  Safe with Sherlock.  In all ways.

“I love you.”  His eyes didn’t leave Sherlock’s rapt face.  “I am yours, yours for as long as you will have me.” 

Sherlock soaked in the sight of John’s face, knowing he would never find any other person, any place other than beside this man that would make him feel more complete. Knowing he hadn’t been aware he was incomplete until he met John.  “Forever, John.  Forever.”  And with those words he crushed his mouth to John’s, practically bruising his lips with the ferociousness of his emotions. 

John hung on for dear life, reaching inside the Belstaff, around Sherlock’s slim waist, to pull him closer, closer.   Not close enough, damn these coats! Quickly unbuttoning both, they shrugged out of them and pushed their bodies together, one set of hands grabbing into a tangle of curls, the other lacing behind a neck, thumbs caressing the sensitive spot behind the ears. 

“John…” Sherlock murmured reverently, pushing John’s mouth open with his tongue, searching for the silky warmth he knew he would find inside. Tongue met tongue, exploring, sucking, tasting.  After several minutes, Sherlock, feeling light-headed for lack of air, pulled back, panting.  He petted John, running his fingers through the short hairs on his head, tracing his fingers along his ear, down his throat, along the contour of his collar, as he got his breath back.

Sherlock dipped down to give John an almost chaste kiss, moving back when he was done so their eyes were just far enough away from each other that they could still focus.  He spoke the words he had never told _anyone_ , not family, not a lover, not as a lie, and not in the heat of passion.  “I love you, too, John.”  He was surprised at how good it felt to say those words.   Mycroft had always told him caring was not an advantage, but it didn’t feel like that right now as he watched his lover’s face fill with wonder, the depth of emotion there almost making him look pained.  Sherlock knew otherwise. 

John pulled Sherlock down for another deep kiss and then rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, filled with the miraculous sensation that he had found everything, _everything_ he had ever wanted.  Right here.

They wrapped their arms around each other, holding tight, the pace of their breathing matching the other’s, knowing they had put their hearts in each other’s hands.  It was fine.  All fine.

* * *

 

After some time had passed, John spoke.  “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”  Sherlock was reluctant to break the serenity of their embrace.

“We _are_ at crime scene, you know.   My crime scene. ”

Despite the gravity of the situation, they giggled, their endorphins still heightened from their passionate display.

“You go look at the pictures, I have to head to the loo.”  John gave Sherlock a peck on the lips, happy that they finally seemed to have themselves sorted.  It had been a long time since he had been in love, but when he had been, he couldn’t remember having felt that the person had been absolutely _right_ for him.  There would be bumps with Sherlock to be sure (he chuckled to himself, thinking “bumps” was an understatement), but somehow they always made it out the other end without hard feelings; they were both good at working through difficulties and then letting them go.

* * *

 

Coming back out of the loo, John was unprepared for what he saw.  Were he a man of fainter heart, it might have stopped beating.

Sherlock stood where John had left him.  But he wasn’t alone.  The fact that he wasn’t alone wasn’t what most alarmed John…it was the gun aimed at that beautiful head.

John’s gun. 

* * *

 

“John,” came the impossibly deep voice, “I believe you’ve met.”

John shifted his eyes over to Lucinda, who stood out of Sherlock’s reach, and back to Sherlock, taking in the face he cared for so deeply.  Sherlock’s relaxed stance belied the danger of the situation and though he didn’t quite look bored, neither did he look overly concerned.  John was sure he couldn’t say the same for himself. 

“You alright?” he asked, cautiously.

“I’m fine, John, just a bit inconvenienced at the moment.”  The two men locked eyes, each silently telling the other that, for the moment at least, they were well, and that no matter what happened they were in this together.

Just as it had the day before, Lucinda’s hand shook slightly as she held the gun that, this time, was pointed at Sherlock. 

John didn’t think he had ever felt more helpless.  He had seen Sherlock in mortal danger before, as when the cabbie had baited the bored detective into almost taking the deadly pill, but that had been different; that time his gun had been in his possession and he had had the ability to protect Sherlock.  But this time John had no weapon and Sherlock had no 50/50 choice. 

“Lucinda,” he said steadily, “you don’t want to do this.  This man has done nothing to you, let him go.”  John had no option other than to try to talk her out of what she was threatening to do.  He wasn’t confident in his chance of doing so.  How could he try to talk someone out of doing something when he hadn’t a clue why she wanted to do it? Why would she want to hurt Sherlock when it was John she had been after?  And he didn’t know why _that_ was.  None of this made any sense.

He looked over at Sherlock again, not remotely comforted by the fact that the detective had erased his face clean of any reaction.  He was grateful that at least for once the detective chose not to bait or belittle his attacker; he didn’t trust the woman’s ability to keep from accidently pulling the trigger. 

Lucinda finally spoke.  “How would _you_ know what I want or don’t want.  I want to make you hurt like you hurt me,” she practically spit out.  “You took my life away and now I want you to feel the same.”

“What do you mean “how I hurt you”?  I never met you before the other night.”  He hoped the words didn’t antagonize her, trying to make them sound conversational as opposed to accusatory, but he was getting frustrated with the lack of information.  Her game made him weary.

“What Miss Albright means is that she lost her fiancée and now she wants you to feel the pain of losing someone you love.”  For the first time since John came back into the room he saw vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes.  Mistakenly, he thought it was Sherlock’s fear for himself; that would have been the normal reaction. 

Sherlock knew that the fear John saw in his eyes was for the man trying to calm the hysterical woman down.  Albright wanted to make John pay for whatever part he had played in her fiancée’s death and that meant taking the life of someone dear to John.  Sherlock had never had a fear of death, in fact often taunting it, curious about what, if anything, was on the other side.  But the thought that his death would cause John pain, that didn’t sit well with him, not at all.  Was it preferable to her killing John?   Yes.

“We were going to get married!”  She continued as though she hadn’t heard them.  “We were going to have children and grow old together.  He was my world!  He was the love of my life.”  She choked back a sob.  “But you, YOU took him away.” Her palm, impossibly, gripped the gun handle even harder.

Increasingly perplexed, John again tried to find out what was causing her agitation.  “What do you think I did?” he asked as he tried to gage how much more pressure Lucinda would have to apply to the trigger before the gun went off.  He knew it was a minute amount.

“This is him, isn’t he.” she nodded towards Sherlock,   “I tried to kill _you_ , but this is even better; I’m going to take him away from you and make you feel the horrible empty hole I’ve felt every moment since Jared died. ”

“I read your blog.  All of it.  The Great Sherlock Holmes,” her voice dripped with disdain, “your “inseparable mate”.  I know it’s him, you described him almost perfectly.  You joked that you weren’t gay, but it was obvious you were in love with him since the day you met.  Just like me and Jared.  We went everywhere together, did everything together from the first we met.  You took away the love of my life and now I’m going to take yours.”

She pulled a long scarf out of her pocket and threw it at Sherlock’s feet.  “Tie his hands up.  Tight.  You’re a military man, you know how to do it right,” she demanded. 

It flashed through John’s mind that this was the time one always heard the line “and no funny business”, but trying to pull a fast one was the furthest thing from his mind at this moment.  The woman with the gun was far too unstable, both mentally and physically, and he didn’t want to put Sherlock’s life further at risk than it already was. 

As he approached Sherlock, the “love of his life” as Lucinda had so accurately put it, the detective nodded his head, giving him express permission to do what she said.  John reached down and picked up the scarf as Sherlock put his hands behind his back, readying himself to be bound.

John reluctantly tied Sherlock’s hands with the scarf, whispering low enough so that hopefully Lucinda didn’t hear, “I love you.”

“Shut up!” she barked.  “Step away.”

John moved back as instructed while Lucinda moved in, gun stilled trained on Sherlock, to test the strength of the knot.  It held. 

“Now go sit down in the chair.”  She gestured toward a chair in the corner of the small room for Sherlock to sit in. 

John hadn’t noticed until now that in the corner by the chair was a piece of rolling luggage.  His stomach turned over; it was the same luggage piece she had had him roll into the insane asylum.  She must have gone back to get it.  Now he knew why she hadn’t just shot Sherlock, she wanted to use whatever was in the bag.  And if Sherlock was correct, as he so often was, it held gasoline.

She wanted to start another fire.  Jesus Christ.

* * *

 

Sherlock had noticed the luggage earlier.  This explained why he had been so agreeable with Lucinda’s demands. It wasn’t her intent to shoot him; she wanted him dead, yes, but not by bullet.  It also explained why he had been so quiet.  No sense agitating her further, causing her to unintentionally pull the hair trigger; he wanted to give himself time to work on a plan to get both him and John out safely.

He correctly counted on her being an amateur criminal.  When John tied his hands, what she didn’t realize was, that though the bond was tight, his wrists were crossed, giving him ample room to free himself at any moment.  The right moment.  Wordlessly he went and sat in the chair, the picture perfect victim.

* * *

 

Of course, John too realized that the scarf he tied on Sherlock was a ruse.  He was less averse to tying Sherlock’s ankles to the chair legs, knowing he was able at any moment to loosen his hands to remove the additional two scarves Lucinda had provided him to do the job.  Still, John felt uneasily complicit with her dangerous game.  He looked up at the man sitting in the chair as he finished the knot on the second ankle; Sherlock was looking back at him with a look that said “trust me”.  With the minutest of nods, John mouthed back, “I do”.  Trusting Sherlock had never been a stretch for him.  It wasn’t now. 

“Now get the bag out and pull out the canisters.  Pour the gasoline on the floor around your lover there.” 

John complied, his hands steady as he lifted the heavy 5 litre containers out and set them on the floor.  He turned the cap on the first canister, pouring the contents out onto the floor in front of him, careful not to allow any of it to slosh onto Sherlock. 

John froze as there came a knock on the door.  John’s head whipped towards Sherlock and then looking over at Lucinda made a quick calculation.  Seeing her head turned away from them and towards the door, he lunged the few feet between them to tackle her to the ground. 

As he did, he heard the explosion of the gun, the sound deafening in the small flat.

As though from far, far away, he heard Sherlock shout his name, “John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for my penchant for cliffhangers. Not two year cliffhangers like Sherlock BBC (wasn't that a GREAT trailer!!), but oooh, the sense of antici...pation is always great fun. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	13. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry, all will be well~ I love our boys.

Sherlock was true to his word ~  he died before Lucinda laid a hand on John. 

Through the years they would occasionally have a heated debate over whether or not it counted as keeping his word since it had only been by accident and not a willful act of heroism on his part, but the memory of that day never failed to make John’s heart skip at least one beat when he thought about how close he had come to losing him.

* * *

 

Still tied to the chair, Sherlock saw John lunge at Lucinda, tackling her to the ground while she was distracted by the knock at the door. 

The instant he saw John’s thighs coil, poised to eject himself from where he stood, Sherlock tore his hands loose from the scarf.  Sheer inertia seemed to propel Sherlock into position to untie his ankles, the only thought his brain was even close to  processing was that he needed to come to John’s aid; this couldn’t possibly go well.

He shouted, “John!”, fearful the doctor had made a foolish move.  He didn’t doubt John’s bravery or skill, but, the woman _did_ have a gun, after all.  And no matter how courageous John was, he was made of flesh.  Rock, scissors, paper; Rock, bullet, flesh.  It was obvious who would lose. 

* * *

 

When John tackled Lucinda, it caused her arm to drop down low enough to fire just inches from his ear, momentarily stunning him in its roar.  He heard his name so far away, “John!”  Turning toward the source, he saw Sherlock standing over the two of them as his arms still grabbed Lucinda’s thighs, his body prone over her feet. 

He felt, rather than heard, Sherlock drop to the floor onto his knees beside him. 

From there, everything took on an ethereal effect, every moment seeming to last an eternity. 

John’s eyes flashed to Sherlock’s other-worldly white face, the blue eyes open but not seeming to see a thing in front of him, the blankness in the usually vibrantly alive orbs frightening.  John’s world began to spin as he saw the shiny red blood spilling from Sherlock’s wound; the detective slumped the rest of the way to the floor, his eyes flickering, then shutting closed, his head lightly bouncing as it hit the ground, already unconscious.  For John, all thought of what he’d been doing a moment before, any thought of Lucinda, vanished. 

Later, when he had time to think about it, John would be grateful for the many years of medical experience he had.  Not just because he knew what to do in a medical emergency, but because it served as a kind of Novocain for his heart.  As a medic and a surgeon he had cared for more people than he could count over the years.  He had cared for many patients he knew and had had a personal relationship with.  But never in his life had he needed to tend to someone he loved, someone he was in love _with_.  Without his experience he might have panicked, might not have been able to set aside his personal feelings, but at that moment, _that_ moment, he was able to tend to the patient.  Not Sherlock.  Had he not been able to separate the two he might have lost his mind.

Blood.  There was too much blood coming from Sherlock’s wound.  A figure with flowing red hair crouched down beside him.  He would have recoiled, but any wasted motion could mean the difference between life and death for Sherlock.

“What can I do to help?” Lucinda asked.  All traces of vehemence and hatred were gone, deep concern had replaced them.  The gun that had been in her hand was no longer there, lying on the floor beside them where she had dropped it.

John made the split second decision to trust the concern he saw there.  It wouldn’t have normally been his first choice, but he had few choices right now, he needed another set of hands.  If he saw one false move, one move that indicated her intentions were not for the good of Sherlock, she would be dead. He had absolutely no qualms about taking out this woman were she to put Sherlock’s life in further danger.  The only thing that had any meaning to John was that Sherlock live, live to grown old with him.  He would take any steps necessary to make sure that happened. 

Even if it meant he had to engage the enemy.

* * *

 

Inspector Dealey knocked on the door.  He heard the scuffle, the gunshot.  Not waiting for someone to answer his knock, he tested the knob, but finding it locked, raised his foot and with all the force he could find, aimed it at the latch, the age-weakened door breaking easily under the impact.  The sight before him momentarily confused him.  From Sherlock’s text message he knew he would find Holmes and Doctor Watson there, but was surprised to find a third person there, kneeling beside the doctor over a body lying on the floor.  He saw a gun off to the side and assessing that he was in no imminent harm, rushed over to retrieve it; he didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t trust that no one would reach to snatch it and use it. 

Seeing the copious amount of blood, from who he now knew was Sherlock Holmes, and the two people intent on coming to his aide, Dealey called an ambulance, hoping they weren’t too late. 

\------------------------

Sherlock’s heart stopped on the operating table.  Twice.  Fortunately, John didn’t find that out until much, much later. 

When the surgeon stepped into the stale waiting room, John jumped to his feet, not caring that the strangers in the room had been sneaking glances at his bloodied clothes, speculating what horrible tragedy could have taken place.

“Doctor Watson?”  John wasn’t used to being on that side of the circumstance.  He knew he would never forget the pause that came after the question, the pause that gave him time to wonder whether the next words to come out of the surgeon’s mouth would cause him joy or heartache. 

“Doctor-to-Doctor I won’t patronize you by glossing over the cold hard facts, it was a touchy surgery.  As you well know, your friend lost a lot of blood; we used what supply we had on hand to replace it and had to call the blood bank to secure more.  The bullet was difficult to remove without causing further damage, but it is out and barring any unusual circumstances, with time he will fully mend.”  Despite the fact that he had told John he wouldn’t gloss over the facts, seeing John’s pale, weary face he didn’t have the heart to share how dire the situation had truly been. 

“They’re readying Mr. Holmes for the recovery room; he should be there in a few minutes.”  He paused, uncomfortable with his next words, “Unfortunately, only spouses and blood relations are able to see patients before they are transferred to a regular bed.” 

John pulled up to his full 5’ 7” and squared his shoulders.  He knew that would be coming, but damn it if he wasn’t going to try to get around the ridiculous hospital regulations.  With his sternest voice he addressed the surgeon.  “I understand your position Doctor, but Sherlock is from London and I am all that he has here in Manchester; I don’t want him waking up to strangers.  You’ll need to make an exception, and if you don’t, I will…”

“He will call Mr. Holmes’ brother in the government who will make sure that your hospital will never get another pence of research money.” 

John had never been more relieved to hear Mycroft’s arrogant tone.  Mycroft stood next to John, the ubiquitous umbrella in hand, as he looked down at the surgeon with a look that said “Just try to stop him.”

The surgeon had seen Mycroft in the paper several times, and though he didn’t know exactly what position he held with the government, he smartly realized that whatever he said next could make or break his career.  He decided to remain a surgeon. 

“Certainly, Sir, I’ll make it known to the staff that Doctor Watson is welcome to visit Mr. Holmes.”  He turned his attention to John and told him, “I’ll have a nurse arrange for fresh clothes for you; we have a collection of donations where you will most certainly find something to fit you.”  With that, he went back through the surgery doors and left the two men standing there.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”  John felt so tired he could hardly stand up.

“No need to thank me, John.  Contrary to what you and my brother might think, his well-being is of utmost importance to me, with that said, whatever is good for my brother is good for me.  Now get changed and go see Sherlock; you don’t want him waking up to see his own blood dried on you.”  While speaking to John, Mycroft had reached out his hand to rest it on his shoulder, but couldn’t find the fortitude to complete the act. 

* * *

 

John entered the recovery room, his attention transfixed by the unnaturally white figure in the hospital bed.  As he approached the bed, he was barely aware of the sound of the machines, the nurse who nodded at him while she stood at the side of the patient checking vitals, the seemingly endless meters of tubes intrusively heading in and out of Sherlock.  Yes, the man in the bed was Sherlock, in body anyway, but the things that made Sherlock _Sherlock_ were distressingly absent.  Looking at Sherlock’s still face, he pushed the dark fringe to the side, softly stroked his thumb across his brow and across the closed eyelid that hid Sherlock’s soul, caressed the cheekbone that was the embodiment of Sherlock’s inner strength.  He had never before felt so lost.

Sitting down in a chair next to the bed, he took Sherlock’s limp hand in his and kissed it, grateful for the warmth he still felt there.  For two days he sat there while Sherlock slept, awake save for the occasional cat nap, terrified he would lose what he had only just found.

* * *

 

“John!”

John awoke with a start at the bellow, having dozed off just moments before.

Sherlock swatted at the nurse’s hand that attempted to wash his arm with the warm, wet flannel.  “Get away from me!”

John rubbed his eyes, blinking them all the way open, and got up to take the flannel from the determined nurse.  “Here, I’ll do that, wouldn’t want you to be injured in the line of duty”.  He smiled at her, apologetic for Sherlock’s outburst.

“Jesus, Sherlock, she’s just trying to give you a _bed bath_.”

“Well I don’t want her touching me,” he groused, ignoring the obvious fact that there had been many strangers touching him for the last several days. (All with the purpose of saving his sorry arse, John thought fondly.)  And not only was he not worse off, but what minimal color he had ever had was coming back.  Along with his rosy personality. 

As John bathed him, Sherlock relaxed, leaning back into the pillow to soak up the attention.  John thought he could almost hear Sherlock purr.  Prissy git.  Actually, he was surprised at how well the detective had taken it all; he was well aware that Sherlock was loathe to suffer to physical contact, no matter the intention.  Except for his, John thought, with a smile that verged on smugness.

Washing Sherlock’s chest, rubbing the cloth up and down the muscles as he admired their contours whilst careful not to disturb the bandages, he broached the subject they had tacitly avoided since Sherlock had woken up the evening before.  John wondered at Sherlock’s reticence to talk about what happened in Lucy’s flat.  It was unlike him, he usually couldn’t wait even a moment to dig into an unsolved case.  And this wasn’t just _any_ case.  John paused; maybe that was the problem, maybe this one hit too close to home.

“Sherlock?”  He wondered how a man who lived on crisps and biscuits and never worked out could have such well-defined shoulders.

“Hmmm?”  Sherlock hummed behind closed eyes.

“The Inspectors are stopping by to talk to us.  Are you up for it?”

“Inspectors?”  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, still too absorbed in John’s ministrations to bother to open his eyes.

“Dealey.  And Greg, too.  He’s come up from London; he’s been concerned about you.”  Unobserved, John looked at the prominent lips, wondering if it was too soon to kiss them.  It felt like years since he had felt them against his own. 

Doing his best to sound off-handed, “Mycroft was here after your surgery; he had to go back to London.  Urgent business, he said.”  John watched for Sherlock’s reaction; he didn’t know if he was disappointed that there wasn’t any.  He continued with the bath, thinking they would have to do this at home, in a less, uhm, well, clinical environment.  He felt slightly ashamed that he was having lustful thoughts while his lover was healing.  He needed to get a grip on himself, he was a doctor after all…the Hippocratic Oath and all that.

“So?”  John hadn’t gotten an answer yet to his question.  He checked his watch again, the Inspectors were waiting for a call from him to let them know he and Sherlock were ready to talk to them about Lucinda.

“”So” what?” 

“ _So_ , can the Inspectors come in?”  He couldn’t help the minor irritation that edged into his voice.

“No need to get all tetchy, John.”

“I’m not”, he fudged, “It’s just that I know they’ve worked hard to solve this case.  They’re tired and Greg wants to get back to London.”  He stopped what he was doing and stood there expectantly. 

Sherlock finally opened his eyes to see what John was doing, to see why John had stopped washing him.  He frowned as he saw John just standing there.  Waiting.  Waiting for him, apparently.  For the first time since he had woken up after being shot he saw John, really _saw_ John.  Unfamiliar with the feeling of regret, for that involved assessing one’s own actions as harmful and lacking, he felt it now as he looked at the face he loved so well, saw its exhaustion.  He surmised that John had barely slept in the last few days and Sherlock hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t expressed his appreciativeness that John cared enough about him to be so concerned.  And he did appreciate it.

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, wet flannel and all, and clasped it with his own. With a transparency that would dumbfound most people that knew him, but not the man standing by him so diligently, Sherlock simply and sincerely said “Thank you, John”. His eyes, briefly studying the strong, capable hand in his, traveled up to meet John’s. 

John’s eyes shone with the warmth he felt as he clasped Sherlock’s hand in return.  He didn’t need to ask what Sherlock was thanking him for, there wasn’t much he didn’t know or understand about this man.  This aggravating, beautiful, brilliant man. 

His man.

Fuck the Hippocratic Oath, he thought, as he bent to kiss Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! No cliffhanger :-D Thank you for taking this ride with me and allowing me to do the one thing that helps to bring me balance and such immense pleasure.


	14. Home

John released Sherlock’s lips, not wanting to overtax him; he needed Sherlock to save some of his meager strength to meet with the detectives. John was well aware that while Sherlock had had plenty of energy to battle the nurses, it was waning fast.  A gunshot wound was no small matter, even for someone as tireless as Sherlock. 

“Pass me my mobile, John.”

“No, Sherlock, you’re not texting anyone; no business today.”

“Just a quick text and then I think I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes.  PASS me my mobile,” he demanded, holding out his hand, the elegant fingers seeming to beg immortalization in an artist’s given medium.

John did as Sherlock asked, grumbling to himself.  He didn’t know if he was more annoyed at the man for always being so bossy or the fact that he could never deny Sherlock even the smallest request. He pulled Sherlock’s mobile out of his pocket and flicked some of the dried blood off the screen with his nail, his fingers shaking as he vividly recalled how it got there.  Hold it together, Watson.  He pressed his fingers along the edges of the mobile, willing them to stop moving.

Sherlock took his mobile from John and started to text.  He was fading fast.  His hand dropped to his side and John took the device from the detective’s hand; there hadn’t even been time to hit “send” before he fell asleep, his head slowly lolling to the side on the pillow. 

If John weren’t so tired, he would have been amused that it took something as significant as getting shot for Sherlock to admit to being tired.  He was human after all.  Far, far too human. 

John studied the face in repose for a few moments, reflecting what a blessed miracle it was that Sherlock had survived being shot.  Sherlock would be just fine.  He had to be.  John looked from Sherlock’s face to his chest, watching the slow, steady movement there as the air moved in and out of his lungs, reassuring himself that Sherlock was just sleeping.

John looked at the screen in his hand; “Get us home, Mycroft. S….” it read. 

Against his better judgment he added the “H” and hit “send”.  He agreed with Sherlock, there was nothing he wanted more than to be home on Baker St.

* * *

John quietly greeted the Inspectors at the door. 

He hadn’t yet met with the police, only giving a small statement to the officer that rode with him and Sherlock to hospital.  Out of deference to his and Sherlock’s friendship with Lestrade, and no doubt some intervention on Mycroft’s part, he had been left alone by Dealey while he sat at Sherlock’s side.  The Albright woman was locked up, so there really was no hurry; there was no question that she had been the one stalking him and the one that shot Sherlock. 

John walked over to Sherlock, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed while the Inspectors stood nearby,.  He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand and spoke softly, “Wake up, love, Dealey and Greg are here to talk to us.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, focusing on John.  Even with the faint haze his mind clung to, he knew that there was no other way he would ever want to wake up but than with this man’s face next him.

With Sherlock awake, John repositioned himself in the chair beside the bed.  Finding Sherlock’s hand, he entwined their fingers, letting their hands rest on Sherlock’s thigh. 

Lestrade couldn’t help allowing a small smile to escape his face.  When he’d seen them hold hands in the restaurant he’d put it down to John’s attempt to soothe Sherlock’s nervous disposition, but now, after he’d talked to Mycroft, he knew that somewhere along the way they’d become a couple.  He’d often thought  to himself “too bad they aren’t gay” because he didn’t know any pair that complemented each other like these two did, but, now… well there you are.  They did fancy each other after all. 

“Sherlock, good to see you, mate.”  Not one to get overly sentimental despite the true affection he held for Sherlock, Lestrade got down to business.  He and Dealey had decided since Lestrade had a history with Sherlock and John, he should take the lead. 

Lestrade brought a chair close to the bed and pulled a ruffled notebook out of his pocket. 

“I know you two have been through hell, so I don’t want to take too much of your time,” he said, his gruff voice weathered by age and too many long nights spent chasing the underbelly of Britain.  “We have Ms. Albright in detention, but she’s not talking.  It’s almost as though she’s in a catatonic state.  The only thing she will say is “Jared”, over and over again. We’ve ordered a psych eval for her.”  Looking at John, “The night of the shooting did she give you any indication of what was going on in her mind?  I know that in her previous…interactions with you, she didn’t give you any idea of why she wanted to harm you.”

John blew a breath out.  As much time he’d had to think about things in the last couple of days, not much thought had been given to what Lucinda had been talking about the night in the flat.  Every time his mind had wandered to what she’d said, it had inevitably re-directed itself to the horrifying shooting, to the man in the bed beside him.  Without having to think about protecting himself from her, she didn’t seem to be important enough to dwell on with Sherlock so gravely injured.

“She seemed to blame me for the death of her fiancée, this Jared bloke.  I don’t know what the hell she was talking about.”  He looked over at Sherlock, then back at the detectives.

“John, do you remember treating any burn victims?”  Sherlock’s voice, while not weak, it offered a fraction of its usual assertiveness.  As often as John was annoyed with Sherlock’s strident confidence, it bothered him to hear Sherlock any less than his usual (overly) assured self.  “While the intensity of Ms. Albright’s emotions and accusations suggest that whatever harm came to her fiancée was intentional, her emotional state could have easily been fueled by an unintentional act.  Her repeated attempts to solve her problem with fire” he gave John’s hand a small squeeze, _“_ indicate that her fiancée may well have died as the result of fatal burns.”

John gave this idea considerable thought.  To be sure, there had been a handful of burn victims he had treated, both in and outside of war, but searching his memory he couldn’t recollect one that had had a fiancée waiting for him.  Three had had wives, one was unattached, and one had a boyfriend.  Not a Lucinda or Jared in the lot.

“No.”  John shook his head.  “No, Lucinda and her fiancée don’t fit into any of the cases I’ve treated.”

Sherlock nodded his head thoughtfully as though this was exactly the answer he had been expecting. 

“Inspectors, you were absolutely correct to order a psychiatric evaluation on Ms. Albright; I fear she suffers from schizophrenia.”

Inspector Dealey’s quizzical face looked from Sherlock, to Lestrade, back to Sherlock.  “How do you make that leap?” he asked Sherlock.  “Schizophrenia affects such a small percentage of the population.   Just because she’s a nutter doesn’t mean she’s mentally ill.” 

Lestrade was enjoying Dealey’s reaction.  He was often delighted by the astonishment of the uninitiated when it came to Sherlock’s deductions.  The detective was truly amazing in his ability to solve a case with the most minimal of information.  Years of experience had taught him to have great faith in Sherlock’s conclusions.

“Come now, Inspector,” Sherlock cocked his head and looked at Dealey with disappointment in that most Holmesian of gestures. “You’re a trained observer, and even with the little interaction you had with the woman surely you saw her cognitive processes are skewed.  I would dare say the fact that she took John to Cane Hill is an additional indication she may have a family history of the illness and was probably a patient herself; she is obviously familiar with the facility.  Schizophrenia’s connection to genetics is well-documented.  If you search her medical history I am sure you will find a family member was an inpatient, most likely no more than a generation ago, and likely a parent.”

Sherlock continued.  “Her fixation with John is a sign of the symptomatic hallucinations and feelings of persecution associated with the disease.”

“You mean she just picked me out of a hat?” John didn’t know if he was relieved or unsettled that that might have been the case.  Being randomly chosen as a target was admittedly no less reassuring than being the object of a vendetta.  At least with the latter there would be some basis in reality, some sense could be made of it.

“Yes, John; her pursuit of you could be the result of something as simple as having chanced across your picture on your blog.  And I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that she never had a fiancée; Jared and his “death” is quite likely a product of her hallucinations, as well.”

“Well…”  Lestrade shook his head, dumbfounded that this mess his friends had found themselves in could have been averted if the perpetrator hadn’t been surfing the internet. Christ. “It does make sense,” he said slowly, thinking out loud as he processed Sherlock’s analysis.  “We spoke with her co-workers, interviewed some tenants in her building, and not a one of them had ever seen or met this Jared fellow.  The teachers thought it was a bit strange that they’d never met him, what with all that they had heard about him.”

“I’ll be heading home this evening; I can check out the family history, see if her either of her parents was a patient at Cane Hill.  Iain,” he added “Inspector Dealey” upon seeing Sherlock’s puzzled expression, “will continue to search for anyone here connected with her to find out if there is any substance to her claim that she had a fiancée.”  Lestrade put his notebook back in his pocket as he stood to leave.  “We won’t bother you any more today.  Not that there was really any doubt, but forensics clearly showed that Albright was the one that fired the gun and John gave us enough information to hold us for a few more days.  I know you both need some rest.”

Inspector Dealey got up to thank them, shaking John’s hand and nodding his head in appreciation for their time.  Cordially, he went to shake Sherlock’s hand, too, but though it had been freed when John released it to shake the Inspector’s hand, Sherlock made no motion to reciprocate, instead looking at the hand offered as though it were beneath him to commit to such a mundane act.

Lestrade looked at the flatmates, “Well, I guess I’ll see you two back in London.”  Directing his next comment to Sherlock, Lestrade smiled encouragingly, “You’ll be good as new soon, I’m sure your doctor here will see to that.”  He stopped short of giving John a wink.

“That he will, Detective Inspector.  That he will.” 

 

* * *

 

Despite their desire to get back to their flat, it was another week before Sherlock was strong enough to make the journey home.   John was adamant he be well out of danger before making the 4 hour car ride, and capable of making it up the stairs to the flat on his own two feet. 

As the week progressed, so did Sherlock’s strength.  Unfortunately, along with the physical strength came boredom.  And nothing was more challenging than a bored Sherlock. 

“John!”  Sherlock barked.

“Yes, love,” John replied patiently for perhaps the hundredth time that week.  He’d lost count.  But it didn’t really matter; he’d be there a hundred times more for Sherlock, a thousand times more.   As many times as the magnificent creature needed him to be there for him.  

Sherlock didn’t say anything.  When John looked at him, he appeared to be deciding just what words he wanted to come out of his mouth.

“What do you need, Sherlock?”  John gently prodded.

“I…I need _you._ ”

John swallowed the lump that formed in his throat; he never imagined he would hear such an emotional sentiment coming from the stubbornly self-contained detective.

“You have me.”

“I need you here.  With me.”  Sherlock patted the small sliver of space beside him on the narrow bed.

Many times over the week John had wished the same thing, to crawl into bed beside Sherlock and wrap his arms around the warm body that made his life feel whole.  But there just wasn’t enough room; he didn’t want to jar Sherlock’s battered body, knowing it was still far too easy to cause the him unnecessary pain. 

“There’s nothing I’d like more, but I can’t fit there; I’m bigger than you think.  You’re just going to have to be patient.  We’ll wait until you’re in a real bed.”

Sherlock humphed in annoyance.  Patience was not something he regularly, if ever, practiced; it wasn’t something he had ever had any use for. The bed he laid in practically shook underneath his fidgeting while he furiously tapped his fingers and his leg bounced, pulling the sheet up the side of the bed.

John studiously ignored the mini-tantrum, putting his nose back into his book.  Not that he could make much sense out of any of the words while Sherlock stewed. 

“John,” came the voice, low and smooth.

The coy tone made John suspicious.  What was he up to now?   He raised his eyes over the pages and wasn’t the least bit fooled by the innocence he saw on Sherlock’s face.

“Yes, Sherlock?”  John put his book down onto his lap, giving Sherlock his full attention (as though he didn’t have it anyway).  This was going to be good, he had no doubt.

“Don’t you think it’s time for a bed bath?” 

“Oh.”  John wasn’t expecting that one.  He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to come up with something that he could participate in, and _enjoy_ , as much as Sherlock did. 

John cleared his throat, it was tight with longing.  “Right, then.  I’ll go ask the nurse for the supplies.”

Coming back to the room with a tub of warm water, soap, and a flannel, John set to washing Sherlock’s back, watching as the detective’s body relaxed into something resembling jelly. 

“You can take a shower, now, you know.  The doctor said it was alright.”

Sherlock rocked rhythmically to a familiar melody he had stored in his head.  “I know, but I like this better.  You do, too.”

“Yes, I do.”  Somehow bathing Sherlock this way was far more intimate than in the shower, dodging the pelting spray.  It might be different in the shower if he could undress as Sherlock did….but in a public place such as the hospital he didn’t think it would be appropriate.  Or relaxing.

John regretted how quickly the water cooled, cutting short this special new ritual they had found.  He regretted that he couldn’t dispense with the flannel and wash Sherlock with his bare hands.  He would be patient, the time would come.  Soon.

With the bath over, Sherlock rested into a sitting position, coming almost eye-to-eye with John.

“Kiss me?”  Sherlock’s eyes rested on John’s mouth, feeling the warmth spreading through his groin.

“Oh god, yes.” 

* * *

 

221B Baker St.  Home.  They were _home._   It felt like it had been forever since they had been in the flat. 

The snow that had been on the ground when they left London had disappeared with an unseasonal warm spell. John said something about global…something, but whatever it was it quickly dropped from Sherlock’s brain.  Useless information.

Despite sleeping most of the ride home, Sherlock was spent from the exertion of the journey.  John helped him get straight to bed and he lay down, keenly aware of the expanse of the mattress in comparison with the one in hospital. 

“John?”

“Yes, love?” 

“I need you.”

Taking off everything but his pants, John crawled under the covers into the empty space beside Sherlock, mindful not to let the cold air from the still-chilled flat touch Sherlock.   Unpacking, what there was of it, could wait for later.

He inched over to where Sherlock lay on his back, wrapping himself around Sherlock everywhere he could, careful not to disturb the bandaging.   His lips met Sherlock’s in a soft kiss, then pressed them to Sherlock’s temple before resting his head on the shoulder beside him.

Two as one, they fell asleep.  They were finally home. 

In all ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me while I sigh.


	15. Healed

Sherlock reached forward and pulled the plug from the drain.   It wouldn’t do to allow the claw-foot tub to overflow while he re-warmed the water - Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be pleased if they flooded the bathroom floor. 

And they certainly didn’t need her coming up to the flat to see why on earth there was water dripping into flat below.

No, best to play it safe. 

It had taken two months, two long months, for Sherlock to fully recuperate from being shot.  Two months that John, had he not before, intimately learned the connection between the two words “patient” and “patience”.   It was no easy thing to nurse back to health a consulting detective who quickly recovered his mental acuity, but took much longer for his body to return to its usual supercharged state.

It had taken two months for Sherlock to fully come to understand that John truly loved him, two months for him trust that someone could want to be with him without needing anything more from him than his companionship.   He had known it intellectually for some time, but for it to reach his heart, well, that had taken much longer. 

And now that he had totally assimilated that fact, it was almost overwhelming.  All of his life he had been berated for being either too much of something (curious, condescending, busy…) or not enough of something else (empathetic, normal, tactful…).   But John, even though occasionally annoyed, never asked him to be anyone other than who he was.  And being exactly who he was just fine with John.  Astounding. 

John picked the bar of soap off the shelf and rubbed it between his palms, slicking them with its oils.   His strong hands were sure and steady as he kneaded the muscles of Sherlock’s back. 

John was the one who had held back from pursuing an intimate relationship while Sherlock healed.   As hard as it had been for the doctor, he hadn’t wanted to rush things, he hadn’t wanted impede Sherlock’s recovery.  Whether in body, mind, or spirit.  He wanted Sherlock back exactly as he had been and he would be damned if he was going rush the process. 

There had been times when John had wondered if that would ever happen, after all, Sherlock had gone through a genuinely traumatic experience.  And who better than John would know the games played on the psyche by a foreign object propelled into the body, threatening one’s very life?

As he pressed his fingers up and down Sherlock’s spine, pushed his thumb along its ridges, and messaged his shoulders, John studied the exit wound that gave evidence of the bullet that had traveled through Sherlock’s body, narrowly missing his heart and lung. 

He had been so, so close to losing him.  As desolate as John had been before meeting Sherlock, he couldn’t imagine how he would have lived through even another day had he lost Sherlock after having met him.  He pushed the thought out of his head, such contemplation held only the value of tearing his heart apart; he only wanted to think about their future, anything else had no purpose for him.

As John’s hands slid down Sherlock’s back to his thighs, Sherlock leaned into John’s chest, pressing himself against John’s warm, wet skin.  This close, John could feel the rumble from Sherlock’s chest when the detective spoke, a not at all unpleasant sensation.

“I apologize, John.”

What?  Had he heard right?  Sherlock never apologized.  For anything.

“And what are you sorry for?”  Things had been relatively quiet the last few days, no boredom-induced agitation, no snipping.  John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called an “idiot”; he would never tell Sherlock, but he missed the oddly endearing insult. 

“Remember when I inferred you weren’t clever? After I asked you what you would say if you were about to die and you said “please, God, let me live”?"

John remembered that moment well.  He remembered the stab of pain he had felt at the memory of thinking he was about to die.  He remembered the flash of contrition he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes when he had replied.  He had known almost the instant he had met Sherlock that he had never met anyone more amazing, no one more brilliant.  But the moment he saw the tinge of regret in Sherlock’s eyes he knew that there was a great heart behind the brain. 

“Yes, love, I remember. So why are you sorry, then?”  He didn’t understand what Sherlock was trying to get at.  Though he hadn’t known it at the time, he now understood that no slight had been meant by that question.

Sherlock looked down at the hand that had found itself on his stomach and knitted the shorter ones with his own.  He took a fortifying breath.  Expressing thoughts that didn’t have anything to do with science or solving a crime still didn’t come easy to him; he didn’t know if they ever would.  But he knew he needed to share this with John. 

“When I was…shot, it happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to think or feel anything.”

“Thank god….”

Sherlock interrupted him, almost snapping at John in his haste.  “That I didn’t know what was happening is not the point.”

Despite the seriousness of the subject, John couldn’t help but give a fond shake of his head at his lover’s need to be so precise.  And abrupt.

“Go on, I’ll not interrupt again,” John said patiently.

“As I said, I didn’t have time to think.  But later,” Sherlock took another deep breath; whatever he was about to say was obviously significant.

“Later, when I, when I died, or so I’m told,” it was John’s turn to take a deep breath, “I _did_ know what was happening.  I know that doesn’t sound probable, but I know it to be true.”

As John promised, he remained silent.  Whatever Sherlock was going to say appeared to need to be said, _had_ to be said.

“I’ve always heard that people’s lives flash before their eyes, but it wasn’t that way for me, John.  The only thing that flashed through my mind was _you_ , that I had to get back to you.”  After a pause, Sherlock added, “Not very clever of me, I suppose.”

Aahh…

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock as far around him as he could, hugging him to him firmly enough that even a man as dense as Sherlock would understand the meaning of it, and rested his cheek against the shoulder in front of him. 

His voice rough with emotion, John quietly said, “No.  No, Sherlock, that was very, very clever of you.”  His heart felt about to burst from the love he felt for this man.

Sherlock turned until he was able to see John.  As John reached up to meet him, he dipped his head to capture John’s mouth with his, the gesture speaking volumes about his heart.

__________________________________________________________

 

This time was nothing like the first. 

This time it was gentle and unhurried.  They made love all night, whispering sweet nothings to each other, pledging their love, occasionally stopping to talk, before they would once again touch and kiss and bring each other to heights neither had ever known.  

“Joh-h-n….”

“Don’t whine Sherlock, I’m not 20 anymore.  And for the record, neither are you.”

“But John…”

“Don’t “but John” me.  I’m going to lie here and take a rest.   Go get a book to read, or your Criminal Science and Psychology magazine; I see a new issue came in the mail the other day.”

Sherlock flopped over onto his back from where he had been facing John, and pouted.  “I’ve already read that.  Twice.  I don’t know why I even bother, most of the articles are written by amateurs.  Their hypotheses are wrong half the time; I re-wrote 5 of them yesterday.  I’d mail them in to the publishers, but the lines at the post office are too long.” 

God help me, John thought, I’m aroused by a pouting 6-foot tall child.  His eyes fixed on the petulant lips that, though expressed displeasure, could paradoxically bring him pleasure beyond anything he could ever imagine.

Sherlock looked slyly at John, “A middle-aged man can achieve orgasm again 72 minutes after ejaculating and it’s been 74 minutes since you last climaxed.”

“Who are you calling middle-aged?” John challenged with mock sternness, his hand snaking itself between Sherlock’s thighs.   He lightly brushed his fingers up the inside of Sherlock’s leg, watching him suck his breath in as he moved up to cup his scrotum, feeling the weight in his hand.  John’s path upward was interrupted as Sherlock grabbed his wrist, putting it on the bed, and rolled halfway on top of him. 

“Not this time, this time is for you,” he said, his piercing blue eyes just inches away from John’s.  Imitating John’s advance, Sherlock reached in between John’s legs, stretching his tongue into John’s mouth when the soldier gasped in anticipation.

Sherlock kissed John deeply, while his hand continued to explore the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs.  John hungrily took what Sherlock offered, but was frustrated to find that every time he raised a hand to touch Sherlock, his wrist was pinned briefly to the bed and he was given the quiet command, “no”, before he was let go.    

Goddammit, bossy knob.  John needed, yes _needed,_ to touch his flesh, feel the soft curls in his hand, touch the cock that was coming to life against him. 

Sherlock stole his lips back from John’s, letting them travel down his body slowly and sensuously, noting the increased rapidity of his breathing.  Before taking one dark red nipple into his mouth, he wetted his thumb with his tongue, massaging one nipple while he teased and nipped at the other.  Meanwhile, his other hand had found its way to John’s shaft, that velvety smooth shaft that had, not so magically, found its fullness without a problem.  No matter what John thought.

John continued to curse at the invisible bonds that held his hands down. What in the hell was Sherlock doing to him?  His nerves were so on fire he felt as though he must have been zapped by some electric prod. 

Coherent thought was becoming less of an option as Sherlock gave one last lick to each of his nipples and blew on them, leaving them free to stand erect in the cool bedroom air, while he moved down to take John’s erection in his mouth. 

John broke free and grabbed onto Sherlock’s curls, the vision of those sumptuous lips on him almost wrecking him…but not quite yet.

Sherlock’s hand replaced his mouth to pump John as his lips moved to kiss the erotic zones of his pelvis; John’s hands followed, still embedded in the sensual mass of hair.  Persistent in this as with all things he found interesting, Sherlock licked and sucked and kissed and stroked while he listened to John make the sounds that told him he was getting closer and closer to coming.  His own cock was throbbing with need, but he pushed that out of his mind.  This was about John.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Sherl…”  John’s words faltered when they were replaced by the moan that escaped from deep within him as he came.  Hard. 

Sherlock continued to firmly grip the throbbing member, watching the fluid spurt out, watching John’s face in its contortions of pleasure, until John lay limp.  He reached over the side of the bed to the small pile of towels and bowl of water they had finally resorted to putting down there, and dipping a towel into the bowl, cleaned John up while he recovered. 

After Sherlock put the things back on the floor John looked at him tiredly at him, brushed his lips with his thumb and with quiet sincerity said, “I couldn’t love you more.”  Moved, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and kissed the palm, his almond-shaped eyes returning the avowal. 

Sherlock perched over John as the doctor relaxed into sleep, pulling the sheet and duvet back up over them.  Fascinated, he smoothed the shiny strands of blond and silver hair that framed John’s face.  The detective felt as though he could look at his face for a lifetime and never be bored. 

* * *

 

“NO!”

“No!”

Sherlock instantly awoke at the sound of John’s cries, the feel of John’s hand forming into a fist where it lay on his chest.  Seeing that John was still asleep, he knew it was one of John’s nightmares.  John would never tell him what they were about, but the resulting emotion never failed to fill Sherlock with a sense of helplessness to either stop them from occurring again or to comfort John in any other way than to cradle him afterward.  He pulled John closer to him and held him, waiting for the trembling to stop. 

While John’s breathing returned to normal, Sherlock murmured into his ear over and over “It’s alright John, you’re safe.” 

With no suitable facility in Manchester and the presence of family in the capital city, the authorities had moved Albright from the prison in Manchester to Bethlem Royal Hospital in London where she was being treated for her illness. 

“Albright is secured at Bethlem, she won’t be able to come after you again.”

John’s eyes, fully open now, soaked in Sherlock’s face, the glow of early dawn softening the harsh angles.  He didn’t think he had ever seen anything more beautiful or anything it would be more devastating to lose.  His hand reached out to smooth across it, pushing back the rich auburn curls that had fallen there.

After about the fifth time he’d had his nightmare, it was always the same one, Sherlock stopped asking about them, accepting that John did not want to share what they were about.  John was grateful for this; he knew there was nothing Sherlock could do about them and all it did was frustrate the man beside him that John would not talk about them.  As he lay in Sherlock’s arms and thought about one of their conversations tonight, about how important it was to be totally honest with each other, in all things, he felt he should tell Sherlock what the dreams were about.  John wasn’t afraid of what Sherlock’s reaction would be, it was that to put into words what had been going through his head, well that, that was the difficult thing.  He wasn’t a man to express his emotions well or openly.

John pulled away from Sherlock enough so he could lie on his back, flinging an arm up over his head onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.          

“My nightmares aren’t about Albright, Sherlock.  True, I wouldn’t want to go back to when she tried to kill me, but I’m not haunted by those memories.  What my nightmares are about is when you were in hospital.”

“But I’m fine, John.”  Sherlock took John’s fingers, pressing their pads to the healed tissue on his chest.  “See?  No hole.  And it’s not like I’m going to get shot every day.  You’ve nothing to worry about,” he declared, as though that was that.

John sighed.  That was _not_ that. 

“When you were in hospital, they weren’t going to let me see you after surgery because I wasn’t family.  In my nightmare, you’re dying and I had to stand outside, I couldn’t get to you.  I could’t be there for you.  No matter how or when it happens, you deserve not to die alone, Sherlock.”

“And I need to be with you.”  John knew his emotions were heightened by the intensity of the dream, as unreal as it was, but he was still a little embarrassed by the moisture that came to his eyes.  He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and lied there looking at Sherlock, daring him to come up with some ridiculous reply.

When no reply came, he broke the silence, “It’s alright.  There’s nothing to be done about it.  Let’s go back to sleep.  When we get up I can go down to Tesco’s, then make us a full English breakfast.”  John didn’t cook often, but when he did he made sure there was plenty of variety, ensuring there was at least one thing that would tempt Sherlock to eat.  John closed his eyes and settled in to get a little more rest after their long night.

* * *

 

Just because Sherlock had been quiet didn’t mean his mind wasn’t racing a hundred miles per hour.  John had told him that Mycroft had intervened so John could visit him in the recovery room, but he hadn’t known that it had meant so much to John.  He didn’t know why it would, but all that mattered was that it concerned John enough to have nightmares about it and he didn’t want to be the cause of any distress to him.  Sherlock knew he had to fix this, but how?  He lay there thinking, listening to John’s soft snoring, as he tried to figure out how to put John’s fears to ease.

* * *

 

As John said he would, after getting up and taking a shower, he headed down to Tesco’s to pick up the breakfast items.  Sherlock stayed in the flat, perusing the morning paper, occasionally stabbing at the print, pointing out to himself some of the more ridiculous “facts” the reporters had to offer.  Really.  Why did they hire buffoons that offered such mush?  Didn’t they know how gullible the common masses were, that they would believe everything they read?

Now having the stamina to do so, Sherlock still didn’t always accompany John on all of his outings (he never had to sneak anymore).  Though he preferred to always be with John, he understood that there were times that John needed to be alone, and it pleased him to give John what he wanted.  Besides, when he used to follow John it had been because he had felt a part of him was missing when John wasn’t around.  That wasn’t the case anymore; John was such a part of him now that no matter where John was, Sherlock had a very tangible sense of his presence.  He felt whole in a way he had never known. 

* * *

 

“Idiot.”

With a sense of déjà vu, John paused, the piece of toast resting at his mouth while he looked around to see who Sherlock was talking to.  John smiled, warmed by the fact that his old Sherlock was back.  Idiot or not, he was glad he was _Sherlock’s_ idiot.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, giving John his total attention. 

“And why am I an idiot?” John asked.

“You’re an _idiot_ because you think there is anyone that can keep us apart.”

John knew that Sherlock was talking about his nightmares.  “Mycroft can’t always be around to flex his, uhm, authority.”

“I know that, John.”  The thought of Mycroft always being in close enough proximity to meddle in their affairs repulsed Sherlock.

“But there are other ways to make sure we aren’t kept apart if the need arises.”  He didn’t like to think of the possibility that they might find themselves in another situation as they had with Albright, but things do happen.  And they _do_ live dangerous lives…

“I was thinking more along the lines of getting married.  Then the law would be on our side to other in any way we need it to be.”

Married?  John’s eyebrow’s furrowed, crinkling his nose.  He had to be careful not to choke on the half-chewed food in his mouth. 

“It’s not a romantic proposition, John.  You know I’m not sentimental.”  (John disagreed with this, but he wasn’t going to tell Sherlock; he would let him maintain his delusion of being a solid rock of intellect.)  It’s a very practical solution to a potentially real problem.  Just as you would not want to be kept from me, the reverse is true, as well.”

Putting off the need to make a response in either the affirmative or negative, John pointed out, “But marriage isn’t legal in Britain.  Well, it is now, but it won’t be put into affect until next year.”

“Aahh, John, but we could register as civil partners, then, when marriages _are_ allowed, we can convert it to a marriage.  Or, we could get married in one of the other EU countries that recognize it, but we should still register as partners to cover ourselves.” 

John was shocked.  Not shocked at getting married.  He knew there was no one he could possibly want to spend his life with other than the man sitting across the table from him.  What totally caught him guard was the fact that it was Sherlock that had introduced the subject, had taken the time to research their options.  What he was less surprised at was that it was not offered as a passionate gesture, but as Sherlock said, “a very practical solution to a potentially real problem”.   How very “Sherlock” it was of him.

Sherlock sat there, expectantly, as John chewed thoughtfully on his sausage.  What was taking the man so long to agree?  He would agree, wouldn’t he?  After all, it was obvious what needed to be done. 

He finally got his answer. 

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s a fine solution.”  John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, letting him clearly see there was no hesitancy there. 

Sherlock searched John’s eyes for doubt.  Not seeing any, he beamed, pleased that John saw it his way.  Reason won every time. 

But… sometimes Sherlock was smarter than anyone thought, and that was pretty damn smart.  Once he deduced the answer to relieving John of his nightmares, he knew deep in his heart that there was nothing, _nothing_ more he wanted in life than to spend the rest of it married to John Watson.  He knew that if he had made it a romantic proposal, John would have hesitated, thinking Sherlock was doing it for him; that it wasn’t something Sherlock wanted for himself.

John would have been wrong.  Terribly wrong.

Idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a bittersweet moment it is for me to finish this story; I have lived with it night and day for almost 3 months and now it is done. The journey was made all the sweeter for your company. Thank you for all your encouraging comments ~ you are absolutely lovely! If you liked it I hope you will join me as I continue the series. Eeek!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Without You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742848) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




End file.
